Just drop it, John
by csfcsf
Summary: One line, different scenes – an exercise. All one-scenes (some have attached extras, though). Several different times John heard Sherlock tell him the same thing: 'Just drop it, John'. Different genres and varying lengths, one common line of dialogue. (Because I was bored - go figure.)
1. Chapter 1

**One line, different stories**

_**.**_

In a mad dash we make our way inside the train station. At the end of the day, even in the countryside, it's full of workers going home, school kids with bag packs and other commuters. For a few seconds Sherlock and I are left frozen in the bustling crowd, trying to catch sight of the suspect (actually, call him a criminal, Sherlock is very sure he did it, I'm just not sure how yet, Sherlock is milking it again).

'There!' Sherlock yells all of a sudden, grabbing me by the arm to push me along. Then we're running again, chasing the suspect Sherlock has spotted in one of the exterior platforms.

He jumps the tickets barrier (easy for his long legs), flashing the platform manager a police badge. Detective Inspector Lestrade's are his favourite acquired badges. I jump next (bloody things!) and luckily the manager assumes we're a team of undercover police officers (I haven't acquired a badge, thank you).

Sherlock is running like a maniac in front of me, shoving innocent people aside on his way to the suspect; I'm following, breaking my own record of voiced apologies for his rudeness. All in a day's work.

As we reach the right platform the train is leaving the station and for a moment all seems to be lost. Maybe the suspect didn't board the train? That would be too lucky. We catch a glimpse of the murderer eyeing us back through one of the windows. I start to curse, Sherlock just grabs my arm again to jerk me into another mad run, side by side with the last carriage of the train, through the platform. Surely it's too late?

Damn this new coat, it's hot and heavy and I'm sweaty and old. Anger at the coat just makes me run faster. Sherlock is still in the lead. The platform ends, suddenly we're running over gravel and dirt.

Sherlock just manages to grab onto the handles of the last door of the end carriage, breathless, his wavy black curls are swept back by sweat and wind, and yet he still looks all posh. 'John, hurry up!'

I jerk myself off my heavy coat even as I run to keep up with the train. Another yard before the train ends the curve on the tracks and then it'll really speed up. This is a last chance. My heavy new coat is on my hand, my legs are spread wide at every step in a way I wasn't sure I could since Afghanistan's emergency rescues, my breaths are painfully shallow, my head is all but dizzying from the lack of coherent oxygen input. God, I'm old. Damn me if I give up. Just three and a half years ago I was using a crutch, damn me if I ever go back to that.

In a mad Geronimo-_ish_ jump I reach the steel handle with the tips of my fingers and I fight for a tight grasp even as my legs are still running the gravel alongside the tracks. Sherlock leans over from inside the train to grab my arm with one hand and the jumper at my neck with the other.

'Let go of the coat, John!'

The coat has nothing to do with it, I'd assure him if I hadn't the wind knocked out of me.

'Just drop it, John!' he demands, more loudly. There is something new in his voice, something I will never question. I drop the heavy coat and launch forward to the train door, he shoves me forcefully inside. Just in time, too. As I scramble over both detective and the floor of the carriage the train jerks suddenly, shaking its carriages and everyone inside.

'Train tracks', Sherlock reports. In my mad run, I never saw it coming. If I were still holding on to the handle it would have thrown me off balance, hard. Possibly fatally.

'Thanks, Sherlock.' My mad partner just acts like he hasn't even heard my words. He's already getting up. 'Are we going to get the suspect now?'

'Catch your breath, John.'

I think on how hard it was for me to keep up running and I'd bet I even pale. 'Look, back there...' I start.

'I'll get you another coat, John.'

'I don't need another coat! Actually, Mary is going to kill me. She gave it to me. Said I looked taller – I mean, nice in it. And good thing I put my phone and wallet in my jeans too.'

'Nice work', he ends up saying, and I just stare dumbfounded at him. Sherlock is complementing me? Is this a midget joke again? I'm average height, not everyone can be towering detectives with long legs, damn it.

I finally get up as well, in the trembling carriage, speeding up on its way to... I have no idea where. Sherlock has been waiting for me (like this is the time to be polite for once in a lifetime, you git). Together we make our way to the criminal, we can already tell he's not even going to put up a fight.

I just take out my phone and ring Lestrade to report our location and the collect point for one fugitive serial murderer. Then I realise Sherlock hasn't told me yet how the man's done it. Well, I'll leave that to him, anyway I'm just his blogger.

'Hey, Lestrade! Yeah, we caught him. We manage to catch him on board a train, nothing too hard.' I catch a glimpse of an amused smile in Sherlock Holmes.

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: (_Danke schön___ for the reminder. Took me a while, right?)_

_Went back to find my old notebook and consult my plan for this collection, sketched (I kid you not) on a long stormy night._

_This one came out a bit sad, it just rolled off the pen like that. And long. Next one will be more upbeat._

_Writing through John's perspective is not as easy as I thought it'd be at first. I once joked that John is like a man with multiple personalities; one time he's the selfless doctor, the next he's the stern soldier, in between the simply John that is easy going and amazed by his friend's abilities. This is about making justice for all those sides of John Watson as a whole._

_We all have different takes on Sherlock and John between the episodes – this is mine (needless to say). -csf_

_Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats._

* * *

**_._**

When I left Baker Street, I've taken with me everything I owned. It fit inside a duffle bag.

I don't own much. I don't need much stuff, certainly I don't need all the amazing clutter (and fire hazard also) that Sherlock keeps at Baker Street.

Mostly clothes, computer, that old RAMC mug; I grabbed them all and stuffed them in a shapeless travelling bag. Actually, I stuffed them in my old army bag, that was at hand on the bottom of the wardrobe closet from the bedroom upstairs.

I realized I needed to get out in a couple of days from what happened at St Bart's. The voices, the glimpses at the corner of the eye, that just weren't there. I know they happened because my mind hadn't quite caught up with the reality, despite the shock, despite the fact that I didn't feel the pulse in the lifeless wrist of my best friend and flatmate. But it was too much. Haunted by him, not really understanding how I had let that happen, in the first place.

So I gathered my worldly possessions, leaving Mrs Hudson alarmed by my sudden exit. I gave her extra months of rent (my part and Sherlock's too), but I knew that wasn't where her troubles in seeing me leave really lay.

All I could not fit in the bag I left behind in the bin.

That's how soldiers think. We need to travel light and fast on enemy ground.

Without Sherlock, London was no more friendly ground.

I took up a small apartment by the clinic, what I could afford at the time. Not much to look at, but it had a roof and a door. Luckily it had some furniture included. That was all I needed.

Soldiers make do with what they have.

It was back in the battle for me, working as many shifts as I could to keep me busy (and sane). I didn't need more. I was doing just fine as I was.

I never really regretted what I left behind, binned. Maybe because I really didn't have the time. Maybe because I didn't give myself permission to think it through. Thinking was far too dangerous and emotional, and exhausting at the time. Instead I focused on work, on saving lives, after I had failed to save one of the most important ones.

Shouldn't say this – all lives are important.

Shouldn't miss Sherlock either, but I did. I just hid the fact from everyone. And even from me.

_**.**_

Mary came into my life. Sherlock re-emerged, quite alive as it turned out.

For a moment in time, it was as if I could have it all. And be happy.

Sure I was still angry at Sherlock for what he had done. Mostly for the time he had kept up his little farce.

But Mary was there, and Sherlock was there, and the gang was coming back together, and the game was back on.

I think I was happy.

That's when the letter arrived in the mail. Multicoloured stamps, enough to tell me it had come from overseas. And I knew what it was, before I even opened it. Another fallen companion.

I had Sherlock back. Somewhere on enemy territory I had lost another of my men.

It never stopped, the Universe. I kept losing people, beyond my grasp.

I have long lost my men, and my post as Captain.

I know they weren't mine to begin with. Not even borrowed.

They were as much mine as I was theirs.

They mourned my loss as well, when I was discharged over the shoulder wound, and its complications.

Now I was left safe in London, receiving news of loss, one by one.

There was nothing I could do. Again.

I didn't tell Mary about these letters. Not for the first time. Didn't want to worry her. With the wedding plans and all.

I think she could tell, anyway. Mary was supportive and sweet. She too knew there was nothing she could do to fix the Universe for me.

I didn't tell Sherlock either. No one was supposed to know.

But now I regretted that upon leaving Baker Street I had found that my uniform didn't fit in my bag.

I knew in the end it didn't matter, lots of us would be going to the funeral in regular civilian clothing.

I regretted even more that I had binned my medals as well.

Always hated those medals. Pressure formed pieces of metal and coloured fabric. I appreciated them proudly before that last one, the one I got for my shoulder troubles, after I was shipped home, worthless and dispensed.

After losing Sherlock I threw them away.

Maybe it was a tantrum.

Maybe I was hurt that I had failed Sherlock, I didn't want to see the medals of the times I had once succeeded.

I remember thinking I wanted a fresh start from it all. Another one. My life is made of fresh starts.

Yet the past always catches up eventually.

_**.**_

'John.'

I turn around abruptly. I've let myself get caught up in my thoughts. Didn't even hear Sherlock climbing up the stairs to 221B, to find me frozen in the middle of the living room. I clear my throat, giving me time to gather my scattered thoughts, before explaining:

'Mrs Hudson told me a letter had come for me, so I dropped by. Hm... I'll tell them the new address, Sherlock.'

He's taking his long coat off in familiar gestures that oppose the sudden nauseated feeling that's overwhelming me. I blink and it goes away. But I'd swear I can still smell the sand on a desert storm.

'John, you need to take a seat.'

Suddenly, he's upon me, piercing me with his light metallic eyes. I cringe at the sudden proximity, I feel trapped as it is, a ball growing in my throat.

'Yeah, I should get going', I mutter, anxious for some fresh air.

He throws me an educational scolding look as he goes crack a window open. The cold outside air grounds me a bit.

I'll never admit I needed it.

'Please take a seat, John.'

'I'm alright now.' Damn it. That's as much of an admission as Sherlock needs.

'Who was he?'

'You saw the letter.' He knows.

'Just the envelope, it was all I needed.' He sounds aloof, but there is no appreciation of his own triumph this time, I realize in the back of my mind.

'A colleague Captain. It doesn't matter.' I try convincing myself, shrugging a little.

He crosses the room to reach the mantle. There's a box just under the skull. He opens it and removes a velvety black bag. The pieces inside jingle in a metallic melody. I recognise it. I stare at him because I cannot believe it, I really can't.

'Mrs Hudson and I kept your medals', he states, in case I haven't caught up yet. But I have. I never thought I'd see them again. 'John...'

I nod. One sharp military nod as it turns out. Maybe because I squared my shoulders and raised my chin.

'John, I can accompany you to the site of the ceremony.'

I shake my head briskly. I can still smell that sand in 221B, there will be no one there as well to maybe watch me crack under pressure, I rather be alone.

'John, you don't have to go alone.'

'I want to. Thanks, though.'

He actually looks impatient now, about to lash out somehow. I stand there, solid, stoic, pushing the smell of sand to the back of my mind again.

'_John, just drop it._'

'Excuse me?'

'Drop the act. You don't have to do this alone.'

A dried up laugh, sterile and empty, comes out of me before I know it. I grab tighter the medal's bag in my hand.

He's still relentlessly staring at me, his eyes on my eyes, searching for signs of weakness. I cannot, I will not, give him any. Overbearingly, he declares: 'I'll pick you up by cab. Mycroft will make sure I'm on the guest list.'

I feel exhausted, and nod at last.

It feels right to give in. To be less alone.

'Sixteen hundred hours, Sherlock.' He nods, ignoring the military jargon. 'Captain Chandler was a good man.' He nods again, restrained.

'I'll make you a tea. No need to leave yet, John.'

I nod, my turn. I know the tea's quality will be unpredictable, but I welcome the chance to sit on my armchair for a couple of minutes.

I hardly notice them go by. Suddenly Sherlock is handing me the tea. Sugared, even though he knows I don't take sugar. I realize he might have smelled the hot sand too. Known it was there. I smile briefly, thanking him without words.

He smiles back, as a friend who's trying to fix the Universe for me, one small thing at a time.


	3. Chapter 3

**_._**

221B Baker Street reeks of sulphur (and the smell is rancid). Can't say it surprises me, as I climb the stairs into the flat to visit Sherlock. It happened before. About two times. I guess three times is the charm, really. I still have no idea what he's up to, in one of his science sulking fits. I'll read it in his blog eventually.

I finally cross the door, disguising a smug smile, and his low voice addresses me immediately:

'Fireworks, John.'

Fireworks. Right. With gunpowder and dangerous chemicals. Just the thing to (not!) do in a kitchen in the heart of London.

'Is it for a case?' I ask.

'Of course. There was an explosion in a warehouse in Chinatown due to badly produced, illegally stored, fireworks. Don't you read the news?'

Yes, I read the news. There was a time I even read them out loud to Sherlock.

'Look Sherlock, are you sure you are being careful?'

'Yes, of course I am. I'm adding sodium for the yellow firework - see?, clearly labelled package - and lithium for red.'

I frown. Not exactly what I meant and he knows it.

'Where will you store those?'

'Nowhere. I'm using them at once.'

'You've got a permit to throw fireworks from Central London on an unordinary date?' I ask.

He shakes his head. 'Mycroft will take care I don't get jailed. He needs me for a case.'

'Sherlock, you'll scare someone half to death!'

He smirks childishly, I sigh as a response. Some things don't really change.

'Look, we can get into a cab, we can try to find a more secluded location.'

He looks triumphant now. What happened? Oh, right. He never meant to use 221's rooftop. He wanted me to go along. Sometimes, the great Sherlock Holmes, the mind of the century, is like a big child with a loud obnoxious foul-smelling toy.

'New Year is over with, Sherlock.'

'Chinese New Year, John.'

I nod, absent-mindedly.

'Are you sure this is for a case?'

'Of course, John!' he answers, like I've just wounded his pride. Immediately I feel bad.

'Fine. What colours do you have?' I lead him on.

'Calcium, lithium, copper, sodium', he tells me as if those were actual colours. I pick up one of the makeshift cardboard tubes, reading again the colour noted on it: copper. _Right_.

As I'm lowering it back down on the table, Sherlock is reaching over for more foul chemicals. His hand collides with my left arm, jerking it briskly. Damned his lack of personal space. My arm is quite sentimentally attached to my bad shoulder that cries out in pain. Before I know it the crafted paper tube has rolled over the open flames of the Bunsen burner.

Sherlock and I share one _very_ scared look.

Immediately I try to shake the fireworks tube to blow it off. Sherlock just grabs me by the other arm, tightly. _'Just drop it, John!'_ He pulls me to the bedroom down the hall just in time.

Turns out "copper" means "blue" in Sherlock's world, and 221B's kitchen hasn't been the same since.

**_._**

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	4. Chapter 4

_**.**_

'What are we doing here, Sherlock?'

'Crime scene, John.'

'You know what I mean. This is not even Lestrade's crime scene. We can't just show up to any Scotland Yard's crime scene and demand the officer in charge to cooperate with us.'

'Lestrade is already convincing the man for me', Sherlock states smugly. 'He'll take over the scene and then we'll be officially invited in. Might as well start looking at the scene already. The longer we wait the more clues left behind by the killer will disappear.'

He lifts the white and blue crime scene tape for him and for me, pressuring me in. Apparently it doesn't take much pressure for I follow him straight away. My senses are engaged, controlling the scene, scanning the perimeter, as my mad friend dives to the floor to smell out the particular brand of car oil that was spilled onto the pavement. All in a day's work, I consider, holding my hands behind my back.

The night is cold and damp. The police car lights shine pulsed explosions of blue against the brick walls of the buildings around us. Greg has just spotted us, still talking to the other Detective Inspector on the scene, the one in charge. I can see by the look on Greg Lestrade's face that Sherlock's presence was less than announced. Time to walk over to them and clear the air.

'What is Sherlock doing here, John?' Greg presses me at once. I'm not Sherlock's keeper, but he already knows that. Instead I answer:

'Sherlock Holmes thinks he can help in this case, DI Lestrade. _If_ the police force is interested in his help.'

'Not my case, John', he warns me. 'Look, this is DI Chandler. Chandler, this is John Watson.'

'Nice to meet you', I state politely, reaching out with a hand. As I take his on mine, I can't help but notice a small tremor, and a sweaty palm. Before I can help myself, I forgot all about advocating for Sherlock and I'm actually leaning forward to check his pupils' dilation in the alley's semi-darkness. 'DI Chandler, I'm a doctor. Do you mind if I take a look at you? Tell me, have you been feeling well?'

The man glances at Greg, then back at me. I have a vague notion that Greg thinks I'm pulling a stunt. I have no time to set him right. That is...

'Greg, get one of the paramedics in here. He's crashing... Now!' I think I yelled at him, I don't think I care.

The man in front of me doesn't realise he's either on some really nasty drugs or he's having a minute seizure, probably the result of a stroke. He's still standing and talking for now; he won't be for long.

Greg opens and closes his mouth silently, then he's on his way.

I make Chandler sit down and kneel by his side, measuring his vitals and reactions by instinct.

'Can you tell me your name?' The usual responsive-alertness assessment questions. He knows his full name, or at least I have no reason to doubt his answer. 'Can you tell me the day of the week?' Apparently not.

I hear rushed steps. The paramedics and Greg, I know it without even turning. I call out his data and my first assessment over the shoulder, then they are working an IV onto him, in case he crashes on the way to the hospital. I suggest a small dosage of blood thinning agents, they agree. The paramedics get him back up, I follow instinctively, but someone holds my arm back, startling me.

It's Greg.

'I'm going with my patient', I snap at him. He shakes his head.

'Let the paramedics take care of it, they know what they are doing. You'd just be on their way in that ambulance, John.'

I feel confused. He's my patient, right? I spotted it first. That makes him my patient, right?

Damn. The paramedics are all of a sudden rushing like mad men in an organised frenzy. I try to run over. Before my body even moves, a strong friendly hand is laid on my shoulder.

'_Just drop it, John_. He's in good hands.'

It's Sherlock. Materializing from thin air.

'Sherlock, he...' I start, but I'm cut off by the sound of the ambulance doors being snapped shut. I just stay there, quiet and empty, watching it leave.

I'm a doctor. I feel helpless.

Greg tries to lighten the mood with a bad taste joke: 'Guess it's my crime scene now and you got your way in the end, Sherlock.'

Strangely, Sherlock Holmes seems more intent on me than on the crime scene now.

And for once he and Greg are on the same page for they are both still holding me back.

'How did you know, John?' Greg asks first. I know he doesn't really care about the answer, he just wants me to recognise it's done, over with. So I abstain from answering, still transfixed on the road the ambulance took to leave.

I need to know he pulled through. I need to know I caught it on time.

Finally I close my eyes, and breathe out.

'You've probably just saved the man's life, John', Greg assures me then.

Probably. Never sure. I should have got used to this. But I'm a doctor. It's my job to save lives. I may have failed this time. I wonder if I should have seen it earlier.

I'm distracted when Greg invites me for a pint later. Before I refuse, Sherlock is inviting himself in and accepting on my behalf. I smile an awkward grim smile. I'm glad they are there. Holding me together.

_**.**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**.**_

'It's for a case, John!'

There was an unrestrained exhilaration in Sherlock's words, one I usually associate with science or murders.

Oh, no. Nothing good ever came out of those words. Ever.

Now I'm curious. Damn.

'Science or murder, Sherlock?'

'Please stop trying to distract me, John. We have little time. We need to disguise ourselves.'

'No', I state slowly, clearly, rounding my vowel. The smug detective pretends he's hard hearing now. All fired up, he's gesticulating all around 221B's living room, going on and on about the three main suspects, and infiltrating their lair.

This is not good. Last time we ended up in a mobsters family's villa in the Mediterranean. At least the sea water was warm, as we swam away for our lives. Mycroft showed up in a bloody yacht, the Holmes brothers enjoy the good life in their emergency rescues.

Still, the water was warm. Better than the cold Thames, when we infiltrated the vampire inspired cult and it turned out they were all artists hired by the real murderer, who then chased us with a gun almost across the bridge, while the artists cheered on, thinking it was a performance. It's very hard to spot Sherlock in the Thames' waters, at night, in dark clothes, with his dark hair wet and plastered all over his eyes and ears. He was about swimming in the wrong direction (he'll never admit his mental map of London is limited to dry land) and I had to get him in the right track.

He's going to get himself killed one of these days.

That's why I need to go with him. So long as there's a chance he might need me.

He has my back too.

'What is it this time, Sherlock?' I give in. He beams a smile at me.

'You play the clarinet, John.'

I gulp dryly. 'Once. In school. I was a mess at it. Never much of a musician. Rather have the physical sports extra school activities.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Predictable', he mumbled under his breath. Then louder, he added: 'Hope you learnt something, John. We are going to infiltrate the Spanish Orchestra.'

'We don't look Spanish.'

'I'll look the part, don't worry. I trained at physical characterization and social interaction of different cultures. You... you were adopted.'

I giggle. Bloody—

'Sherlock!'

He's smiling too. I swear sometimes he's a consulting nine years old detective.

'Sherlock, I don't know how to play a musical instrument, couldn't do it to save my life.'

'Yes you can.'

'Seriously, Sherlock, I can't. We'll get caught.'

He rolled his eyes. '_Just drop it, John_. I know you were on the school band for two years before you joined the rugby team.'

'How—?' Never mind.

No point in denying it to my bloody stalker now.

'I said we would infiltrate the Orchestra, John. There'll be a real clarinettist there. We'll fix your clarinet so it looks like you are playing along while no sound comes out. No need to worry about brushing up your performance. Naturally I can't jam cotton balls into a violin so I'll be playing with them.'

'Couldn't you have mentioned the cotton balls from the beginning?' I complain, I already know it's useless. 'And this is going to help catch a murderer?'

'Of course', he answers as the most natural thing in the world. It's either the bassoonist or the maestro, I'd guess.

'And, John?'

'Hm?'

'You can keep the clarinet. Mrs Hudson would love to hear you play one evening. She enjoys hearing me.'

Yeah. That's _you,_ Sherlock. They may need the cotton balls in their ears to handle my performance.

At least it's warm and dry in the theatre, I consider, with a head shake.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: I actually think John might surprise us and play well enough without muffling the sound of his clarinet with cotton balls. From the show and original stories he shows interest and some knowledge of classical pieces. The clarinet is a throw-away line in S1E2 to Sarah, in case you don't remember. __-csf_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Technically it's a two scenes entry, I just couldn't leave it with only the first.  
I wrote this while on the bus. I expect this means I write heavy sad fests when on the bus. (Take this as an alert.) I'll take the subway more often now. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'I didn't do it, Sherlock, I'd never... I'm a doctor for heaven's sake!' My voice comes out slightly broken, overly emotional.

Why won't he believe me? He has to believe me.

He appeases me immediately:

'I know that, John, and I'll prove it. _Just drop it, John_. Drop the gun. It's okay, you're safe.'

I feel my breath caught up painfully in my throat. 'You think I did it, Sherlock. You think I killed that man.'

'No, I don't, John. Put the gun down, the police is watching us.'

'Didn't do it', I'm stuttering now. Elevated heart rate, irregular breathing pattern. I'm a soldier, for heaven's sake. What's the matter with me? If I had killed that man I wouldn't be this worked up.

Damn. I drop the gun at last because I can't trust myself with it.

I've just triggered my PTSD. _Not again_.

The images of war floating in front of my eyes and blasting in my ears.

Just take me, arrest me, throw me in a dark whole; I don't care.

'Need a medic, Lestrade!' I hear mumbled sounds as if I was underwater, fighting to reach the surface. Inside I'm dying. I don't care. It's pain and misery and I want it to end. 'John's been drugged, hurry!' Sherlock grabs me, physically restraining me. Maybe I was pushing him away. 'John, stop it!' he yells at me like I never heard him before. I struggle to get free. He jams me against his warm wool coat. It's getting damp. I'm sweating like crazy. 'John, concentrate on my voice, you need to keep your hands still. You are hurting yourself already.' What? He's got hold of my arms, I've been clawing invisible shadows off of them. I stop, closing my eyes tight. Sherlock's proximity is grounding me, it's the only thing that is keeping me connected. My mind has wondered off, between the drugs and the PTSD they triggered.

'John, can you talk to me?' I can hear the residue of fear in his voice, even if he tries to hide it. Afraid for me, or of me.

I shake my head in an undisguised whimper. Someone stabs me with a needle. I knew it was coming, but it still sends a shiver down my body. Sherlock holds me tighter. No point. I'm not fighting anymore. I must have done it, I deserve my demons. I accept them. _I'm sorry, Sherlock_.

'John?'

I'm slipping from his grasp. I'm slipping from reality.

'He's crashing! Do something!' Sherlock yells in his thunderous voice. I giggle wildly, it comes out meekly. Oh, I'm in deep trouble, I understand it in an isolated moment of clarity. Then, as fast as it came, it's over and I'm back in the battlefield, powerless and empty.

'John!'

I've given up. I welcome my personal hell. I deserve it and more.

'John, listen to me: you are safe.'

Oh, here's the haze. The good drugs are doing the trick.

'The gun...' I mutter as I regain some control over my voice.

'I'm letting Lestrade keep your gun for now, John.'

'I killed him', I blurt out at last. I think I may be sweating a lot still. Something is rolling down my cheek. I just hide it in the wool fabric of his coat.

'There's no one dead here, John', he promises me. 'It was all in your head because you have been poisoned. Listen to me. You - are - safe. Focus on my voice alone. Do you trust me?' I nod after a second or two. 'Would I lie to you? Wait, I shouldn't have asked you that. John, know that I'm not lying now. There is no body, you shot a wall, there was no one there. You were hallucinating. You were seeing things. Are you still seeing things?' I nod, the good drugs are making me too tired to talk. 'That's okay, it'll wear off soon, I promise. I'm here, keep that in mind.' He's awkward at comforting, but I appreciate his honesty. I wish he's telling the truth, I wish it under my breath, over and over again. I wish him to be real as well. Seems real enough for now.

Suddenly, Lestrade is there too. I recognise his out-of-breath voice saying : 'We caught the bastard as he was escaping through the back. The paramedics suspect they know what he used. They are running tests now. How's –? _Jees–_, Sherlock! What can I do?'

I can feel the brisk movement in his head to shut up Greg, Sherlock knows a part of me is still listening. I try to tell them I'm fine, using my slurred speech. They don't believe me. I wouldn't believe myself either.

Sherlock won't let go of me. He's forming a wall of protection around me. I sink in further on it, as I fall asleep, courtesy of the good drugs. I'll let sleep sort me out.

'That's it, John, I've got you. I'm real and I'm staying here.'

I fall asleep, wondering how he knew about that. Maybe he's inside my head too. After all, he managed to chase the memories away.

_**.**_

'Feeling better?' Sherlock asks me almost at once, as I reach the landing, emerging from my old bedroom after a long dreamless sleep. I woke up sore, exhausted and embarrassed. It doesn't help that last one that I am still a flight of stairs away as he monitors me from the kitchen.

Somehow I took too long to answer; he appeared in the landing to check up on me himself. He stares at me with a warm light in his metallic eyes. Then he nods, approvingly.

'Why did he do it?' I ask as I hold onto the banister to descend the stairs towards Sherlock. I realise I don't remember climbing them before.

'So he could get away and you couldn't stop him.'

'Effective', I mutter.

'Hardly', he depreciates. 'Takes more than that to beat John Watson.'

'You saw me, Sherlock', I comment dryly. 'And why did you agree with me at first? You said you'd help me prove I didn't do it?'

'I didn't know the extent of your state, I was going along with your hallucination.'

I nod, slowly. I have done that with triggered soldiers as well. 'Next time would you start by telling me I haven't just shot someone's head off?'

'As soon as you stop pointing the gun, I will. Up until then, I'll carry on agreeing with all you say.' His response is casual and light, but his point comes across clear as crystal.

'Yeah, about pointing the gun...'

'It's okay, John. I know you better than you know yourself. I know you wouldn't have shot me.'

I hope so too.

A wave of exhaustion is flooring me. He comes forward to help me descend the last steps.

'Tea?' he offers, as if nothing has happened, time is running backwards.

'That would be bloody lovely', I confess, leaning in for that trust again.

_**.**_


	7. Chapter 7

__A/N: Danke schön &amp; Thank you. Hopefully I finally can come back to some regular flow. -csf_  
_

* * *

_**.**_

'I've been reading these funny stories about us', I comment, rather out of the blue and from the depths of my armchair, laptop open on my lap and gaze stuck upon one of these webpages.

Sherlock glances at me, safety goggles on, standing by the living room table. 'People do little else.' I smile, but I need to let him know:

'Quite a few stories, Sherlock. Knowledgeable too. As if they knew us well. That is, _me_. I meant _me_. Here's one about you having all this bottled up emotions that you can't really tell _me_. That's silly. We can always talk about anything. Just yesterday we were talking about the cat the Turners next door fostered. If that's not talking about anything...'

'Hm.' His scientific mind doesn't really care, I guess.

I realise I don't really need a real incentive to share my one-sided complaint: 'This person has got a few things right. That is, I'm sure it's not anyone we know, Sherlock. But this person wrote about me having a vivid nightmare. I wonder where they got this information. I did have one just the day before yesterday. Well, you remember, Sherlock.'

The scientific detective takes a second too long to respond in a very convincing tone: 'Nightmare?'

'Don't pretend', I tell him sternly. 'I'm a visitor in Baker Street now, while Mary is in Ireland. I've been staying in your sofa. Even Mrs Hudson heard me, downstairs. I know you must have woken up. Even if you didn't leave your room.' I smile softly at the end of my words. It's an appreciation, the best I can voice it. Sherlock had chosen to give me my privacy, to keep preserved whatever broken shreds of dignity there were left. Stoically I brush the topic aside (but not the memories, never those, I know I've tried that so many times).

'John.' Sherlock rescues me from the memories of my disastrous night. He seems genuinely interested as he asks: 'What did my impersonator say about your... troubles?'

I shake my head. I wouldn't confront my friend with words he hasn't spoken, it wouldn't be fair. 'Silly things, Sherlock. Not worth reading.'

His piercing me with his metallic eyes, looking less cold today. It must be the goggles.

'I wouldn't worry too much. People make up the most ludicrous things on the internet.'

'That's true. I just don't like having my frailty exposed like that.'

He scolds me with a heavy glance. I don't understand the nature of it.

'Maybe you should read the comments section, John.'

'What?' I lost him altogether.

'I hear people are usually supportive in this kind of things. Even if they know it's not really me writing those texts. It's not even my usual speech pattern', he insists firmly.

'Hang in there a second!' I ask loudly and he freezes with a smelly beaker on his hand. 'You said you didn't read this, but you have, haven't you? The comments section, the speech pattern, you might even know who wrote this by now! Did you ask Mycroft to tell you? Have you been monitoring this?'

All the while I spoke he kept frozen in his place. Which was very strange.

'_Just drop it, John_', he says at last, dismissive. 'I did not speak to Mycroft over who writes on the internet. I told Mycroft to leave those people alone, he was using up all his cctv cameras and intel reports on them. Real criminals could get away.'

I nod, tired. Sherlock's right. The writer in that website kept using odd words, which Sherlock would never go for. And sentiments. Neither I nor Sherlock were ever fond of expressing those. Whoever the writer was, he or she had got my friend and great detective wrong.

«The bravery and single-minded allegiance of John Watson is put to the test time and time again. He has left enemy territory behind, but somehow part of his mind still returns there, fighting alongside his fellow soldiers, his friends, at night. In his hero mind he will not allow himself to rest. As if the weight of the world is always on his shoulders.»

I shake my head as I read those lines. That's one poetic way of saying I'm a messed up man. With a sigh, I bang the laptop shut.

Sherlock's intense gaze is still upon me.

_**.**_

It's been a few days and somehow I came back to the same webpage. The comments posted keep growing in numbers, but there is only one short anonymous comment that calls for my attention:

«I mean it, John.»

Even in face of the sheer impossibility, I feel a shiver down my spine as I stare into those words on the screen.

_**.**_

* * *

_2nd A/N: I've said before, those two are inefficient communicators. Maybe they've found a (weird) way. Yes, I think Sherlock would write a message for his blogger to find online, so long as it was anonymous. _Because to me Sherlock admires John as much as John admires him, that's what makes their friendship great. ___-csf_


	8. Chapter 8

_**.**_

The moonlight shines over the Thames murky waters under the Millennium Bridge. I hardly pay attention to the flecks spreading over the surface. They cannot distract me from the silver glint of the knife pressed against Sherlock's neck. The whole world has gone still. The desperate criminal has got Sherlock on a deadlock, all the while all he criminal wants is to get away. I'm standing five feet from them, at the centre of the bridge's path, watching the two backing up to the banister. I caress my gun in my coat pocket, but I don't dare to take it out. The murderer might panic and hurt Sherlock.

'Drop it, Chandler. You have no escape. Don't make it worse on yourself than it already is', I try to reason with the murderer.

'I have nothing to lose, Watson.'

'I'll make sure you do', I snap back in a dark promise.

Sherlock, the hostage, tries to cool things down: '_Just drop it, John_. Chandler can leave, unharmed, if he lets go of me.'

I bite my lip. That's going to cost me, letting a vicious murderer go. But the immediate price is too high. Sherlock and I will hunt him down again.

'Let – him – go', I pronounce slowly, staring straight at the criminal, and take another step forward.

Chandler pushes Sherlock with him back another step, hitting the bridge's structure. He's trapped, and prolonging the inevitable. I smirk.

In a desperate movement, it all happens swiftly and fast. Chandler slides the knife off of Sherlock's neck, hits him on the head with the blunt end and shoves my stunned hurt friend against the balcony and over it. I'm already rushing forward. In three cold blooded strikes I knock him senseless, and then kick the knife away. I'm already taking my phone out and speed-dialling DI Greg Lestrade. I drop the phone by Chandler's unconscious form, grab the banister, and step over it into the open air in a hurried jump.

The dive comes fast, the wind in my ears is deafening, disorienting me. The contact with the ice cold water of the Thames knocks the breath out of me, encasing me completely in the numbing cold. I kick furiously to push myself beyond the cocoon of air bubbles that separates me from the badly lit surface. I need to get to Sherlock. Sherlock needs me. I cannot waste time.

I gasp for a lung full of air at the surface. It's painful and raw in my chest. My mouth tastes of the foul water and a metallic tinge of blood, I must have bit my lip, it's not important. Sherlock is.

He's flapping uncoordinatedly ten feet away, swimming inefficiently towards the river bank. He'll never make it if he keeps wasting his energy that badly. I need to get to him, and guide him, before the cold paralyses us both.

I'm already coursing the water in strokes, I called out his name but he didn't seem to hear me.

'Sherlock!' I try again, this time there is a faint recognition. He takes too long to turn his head on the water to face me. The cold has already got to him. Hypothermia is a severe risk right now, for the both of us.

Had we been alone neither would have made it. Together we have a chance. We are pushing each other to the industrialised margin, the beach of slimy gravel and stone.

'Help is already on its way', I promise Sherlock as we are only a couple of strokes away from getting a footing on the river bank. I can see his movements are rigid and he's shaking to his core. It's bad. Most likely, I'm the same.

We push ourselves to safe ground, half walking, half crawling. Our clothes are drenched in Thames' water. I realise Sherlock has stripped his coat off in the river, the heavy soaked wool was impossible to carry. It was the smart thing to do. My own soaked jumper is weighting me to the ground. But now he's left to the bitter cold with even less protection. I remove my coat swiftly to wrap it around him, when the sharpest pain cracks my shoulder in two. White lights swim in front of my eyes. I know what this is about, I try to ignore it. Sherlock is slumped in the artificial shore, sitting ungracefully, and I cover his shoulders with my coat. Hypothermia is life threatening him now.

I'm a doctor and I can't stop it.

I take off my gloves and try to force them on his hands, he's strangely subdued and quiet. I'm really worried. My gloves don't fit him, they're too small, but I leave them there.

'Your sh-shoulder, John', he says at last, stuttering a bit. He saw the signs.

'My shoulder is fine, Sherlock.'

'It's not!' he contradicts me, childishly. I smile at his tone of voice. I'm glad to hear his words, hear him talking. It grounds me in a shameless way.

'Hang in there, Sherlock. Keep talking.'

'You need your coat back.'

'You need it more', I hush my friend as I keep him from brushing it off. Sherlock is a lanky man, hypothermia is likely to set faster on him. Besides, I'm keeping myself busy with him, he's just sitting on the ground, rattled by icy shivers in the cold night.

To hell with dignity.

I hug him tight to me, trying to keep us both warm, sharing the body heat we're losing too fast. He stiffens more, if possible, in his contact with me. It's not that he finds me repulsive, it's just that he's Sherlock. I won't give my friend room for argument. Finally he relents and leans in to me. This could almost be comfortable.

'Hang in there, Sh-Sherlock.'

'You already s-said that.'

I bite a smile. Only Sherlock could correct me under the circumstances. I can finally hear an ambulance, rushing in. I decide I can close my eyes for two seconds before directing the paramedics on Sherlock's condition...

_**.**_

I wake up inside an ambulance. I can feel the speed it travels at, the frightening sound of the siren as it blares outside. It almost drowns the beeping noise of the life support machine. I try to locate my patient. Someone pulls me down against the hard surface beneath me.

I'm in the wrong place. I'm a doctor. I shouldn't be on a stretcher, a warm blanket on top of me. This is wrong.

I try to get up again, someone is tightening the restrains over my chest and arms, it makes me gasp, the explosion in my shoulder is bursting again.

A rush of euphoria runs past me, after the prickling of a needle is removed. It immediately turns into a metaphorical curtain of smoke, clouding my senses, making every one of my thoughts heavy and lethargic. Morphine, then.

This is bad.

Drop it, John. Just let go of the world.

_**.**_

'John?... John!... Will you wake up already? This is boring!... Probably shouldn't have said that, now you're not in a hurry anymore... _John!_'

I blink, slowly gathering my senses one by one, I had lost grasp on all of them.

It's Sherlock. He's talking to me. He's lying down, and so am I. Two hospital beds. I wonder what happened.

It's blissfully peaceful. I feel light as a feather. Maybe I should sleep some more. Only...

'John, don't you dare!'

I look over at Sherlock and try to focus. Is he alright? He looks alright. IV link, broad spectrum antibiotics as a precautionary measure, life support machine beeping away nicely, good tone on his complexion, lunch tray by his side showing he needs to eat more.

Lunch?

I glance at the window behind him. Daylight.

What did I miss?

'Sh-Sherlock?' My voice is as course as my head is scrambled. 'What happened?'

'You saved us, John.'

'What?'

He nods, assuring me I heard him right. 'I'm fine', he answers what he knows will be the next question. 'I haven't left yet because you have been sleeping all this time. You can be very boring, John.'

I nod, way too confused to care.

'Are you okay, Sherlock?'

He rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at me. 'I told you I am.'

'That's good', I say, settling back and closing my eyes again, too tired. This time he allows me to drift back to sleep. All questions can be answered later, Sherlock's okay, and so I'm okay.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: In which I suspect I may have written the Thames' waters running upstream, I can't really recall the direction of the flow. -csf_

_Addendum__: I've been reliably informed that the Thames is tidal. :)_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Thank you for all the interest, it really makes me smile.  
__This next one is very different. Small, awkward, silly one. Don't really know where it came from. I wanted something light ...Is it?  
__Life is being complicated, and writing these small ones is more attainable. So 2 posts tonight (well, it's night here). -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

First of all, I didn't start it.

I know it sounds childish, but living with the great genius detective for a year and a half has brought me to this. While we shared 221B Baker Street quarters, he kept borrowing my computer. Because he couldn't be bothered to get up and use his. Even if mine was password protected. Honestly, I think he took it as a challenge.

My last password at Baker Street was _don't-you-dare-Sherlock_.

He still cracked it. Shamelessly.

So now the tables have turned. I'm in Baker Street, waiting to meet Sherlock that is returning from St. Bart's. I've just picked up the phone on the kitchen table with the intermittent light showing a missed call, text, email, whatever. _I thought it was my phone_. I typed in the password – _john_ – and it worked.

This is not my phone. It's the same maker and model, hence the confusion. This is Sherlock's phone. He forgot it on the kitchen table. I'm holding Sherlock's unlocked phone on my hand, and its password is _john_. Is this some joke?

I look all around me, half-expecting Sherlock to step out of the shadows and laugh with me.

221B is empty.

_j__ohn._

'John?'

The real sound of my name echoes as Sherlock is stamping up the stairs, hurriedly. 'There you are. Whatever you were doing, _just drop it, John_. Crime scene! We're running late!'

'Wait, Sherlock, your password...'

He halts at my request and looks down at my hand. He probably doesn't miss my own phone creating a volume in my coat pocket. Instantly he realises this one is his.

'Simple commodity, John', he argues back. 'Having the same password as you allows me to use whichever of our phones is first at hand.'

I almost fall for it. Then I remember I set the password not even a week ago and Sherlock had no way of knowing I had such an obvious passwords on my phone. I do a lot better in my computer. I tell that to Sherlock and watch him go tense.

'It's a well known memory technique, John', he starts again, 'to associate a password to a word with an emotional connection, that way it's easily remembered. Granted, choosing your name was a tad easy, but that's why it's so good. In reverse psychology, people don't expect me to use a simple password, and...'

I cut him short:

'You have an emotional connection to my name?' This is awkward.

'You are my friend, John.' Makes sense, now you put it like that. 'I could have chosen Gavin as well.'

'Greg', I correct.

'That could be a problem. Gavin, Greg, Geoff...'

'Mrs Hudson?' I add.

'A bit long, don't you think?'

'Mrs H. Four letters.'

'Yeah, I guess.'

'Mary.'

'Yeah.'

'Molly.'

'That's five letters.'

'It's still short.'

'So are you.'

I death-stare at him. I know he didn't mean only my name. It's like he's changing the subject. As if he's embarrassed his password is _john_.

Hey, I'm the one that should be embarrassed. I'm John and my lazy password is _john_. Maybe mine should be _sherlock._

I finally let it go. 'Crime scene?' I volunteer.

He smirks. 'A bit too long, no?' he asks taking his phone back. He knows what I meant and we both go to the door.

'221B?'

'A bit too obvious, don't you think?'

'And _john_ isn't?'

'You're anything but obvious, John', he plays along. 'You keep surprising me.'

_**.**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**.**_

Don't understand why people say "it's a walk in the park" to mean that something is easy. I went for a walk in the park and ended up subdued and tied up in an old storage facility outside London. Still, that was the plan. Sherlock's plan. Including me getting rid of the restrains and scavenging in the warehouse for hidden proofs of culpability, in the absence of the criminal gang we're chasing. All the while Sherlock is invading the storage facility to meet me here. A very nice plan, only one tiny flaw. I got my head heavily banged-up, I'm seeing double's double (that means quartets of every object around me), and I'm not entirely sure I can keep myself from going sick right here. It all spells c-o-n-c-u-s-s-i-o-n. As a doctor – when I'm not playing bait for a consulting detective – I know this isn't good. I'd be more worried, if only I wasn't so sleepy. That again isn't good. I can't fall asleep. Not before a CT scan clears me of complications.

_You should probably hurry up, Sherlock._

You're going to be so disappointed I didn't get to do the work. All in vain. Now you'll never trust me again. Can't blame you. A soldier that gets trashed from behind. I didn't even see the second accomplice.

It means I'm too old, and I should retire.

I don't feel old, though.

It's so quiet out here.

If Sherlock were here, this would be the noisiest warehouse ever. _That's it, John, focus to stay awake_. Sherlock could try one of his foul smelling experiments, with his goggles on. Mrs Hudson would be glad he'd finally change premises. 221B is the oddest lab in London.

Maybe if I just close my eyes for a second, I'll feel better...

'John!'

The shout echoes the empty warehouse, stirring me awake. I can't even tell where the shout came from, but I'd recognise it anywhere. It's Sherlock. I'm smiling.

_He'll push me away now._ I lose my smile instantly. Fought so hard to gain his trust, to be included in his amazing work. All down the drain now.

_I'll just sleep it off_. Everything looks better in the mornings.

'John, talk to me!'

_I'm trying to sleep here, can't you see?_

'Focus, John!'

_Rude._

'That's enough, John. I apologise. There. I said it. Now it's your turn, you need to stay awake... It's no use, is it?'

Under a curtain of smoke I'd swear was all around us (it really couldn't be) he's briskly untying me. Next he tries to push me upright only to understand his blogger is too wobbly to stand on his own.

There's definitely a noise outside. The gang is returning. We were supposed to have left by now. I try to push Sherlock away, he needs to get out. Fast.

'_Just drop it, John_. How would you think I'd leave you behind?'

I feel his arm moving away from me, he's sliding his hand for the gun I lent him. He glances at me. I can see a very dark and dangerous light in Sherlock's eyes. A feral protection that is meant for me. I remember it from the time that American hurt Mrs Hudson. I know what Sherlock wants to do. I need to stop it before he might go further than Lestrade can work out. Or even his brother, Mycroft. _He's done it once already._

_I'm not worth it._

'Sherlock, can I stay at Baker Street tonight?' I make myself invited to the extra room. I want to ground him.

His expression softens a touch. 'Sure, John', he answers with some care in his tone of voice so he won't aggravate my inevitable headache.

Sherlock eases me back to the ground where I was held bound. Then in a contrast of energy and drive he launches forward to the man entering the warehouse. I'm left to watch the fight unfold, powerless.

I smile lazily, as I watch a good selection of martial arts and a couple of tricks under his sleeve. Every time my heavy head threatens to fall to my chest he calls me out by name. He's fighting for our lives, all the while he's keeping an eye on me.

_I'm really lucky._

_**.**_

Baker Street. I insisted on being released from observation at the hospital and we've just arrived. My mind is less foggy and Sherlock actually volunteered to make us both tea. I take a seat in my armchair, he goes into the kitchen.

That old piece of furniture that I loved from day one never felt so comfortable before. Even that broken spring that kept nudging my left knee seems gone. And it feels more padded, too. I suppose that I'm more tired than I thought. Sherlock wouldn't get my armchair fixed; why would he?

He's making me tea, so everything is possible, I guess.

'Thanks, Sherlock, but I'm fine now.'

He smirks. 'Not what your doctor said.'

'Chandler is an idiot. Always was, back when we were in medical college together. Which reminds me: I'm too old for this.'

'Nonsense.'

'I was stupid enough to let myself get caught, I must be old.'

He brings in a steaming mug of tea; it too looks, and smells, wonderful.

'I have your back, John, and you have mine. That's the plan. Besides, I need a blogger.'

I smile as a response to his smile. 'In the end, we got proofs from the warehouse for Lestrade. We did good, Sherlock.'

He nods, somehow looking relieved. Only then I realise what the tea and the padded armchair are for. He really wants me to stay; he thought I'd might want to leave.

I take a sip of tea. _I'm staying Sherlock._

**.**

* * *

_A/N: In which "Chandler" has become somewhat of an inside joke; sorry about that, I never seem to know names for throw-away characters. -csf_


	11. Chapter 11

_**.**_

'_Just drop it, John._'

'No.'

'Come on, John.'

'No way.'

'John.'

'Sherlock.'

'John, I'm not giving up.'

'Yes, you are. Soon enough.'

'John...'

'That's five times under a minute you said my name. Still hasn't worked. Won't work.'

'John, don't make me pressure you like this.'

'Six times.'

'I can make you.'

'No, you can't.'

'I can take your gun.'

'I'd take your violin.'

'John...'

'Seven times.'

Mrs Hudson interrupted our intense conversation entering 221B with a vivacious "Uh-oh" and half a glance in our direction. She immediately headed towards the kitchen, completely ignoring the fact that I don't live in Baker Street anymore, that I'm just passing by. Apparently, to argue with Sherlock.

'No, Sherlock.'

'Say Yes.'

'No.'

Mrs Hudson chipped in: 'What are you on about, boys?'

'Milk, tensely. Who's buying the bloody milk.'

'Language, young man!' she scolds me. I think I'm blushing. 'I already bought milk for you, boys. And Sherlock, you're next, dear.'

'Fine!' he alleges, aloof.

It's a lie. He'll never go to the store. I sigh.

Well, I'm not buying it either.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: Silly, absurdly short nonsense. Can't all be life-threatening, right? Can't all be silly, either. Next one should be updated right next to this one. -csf_


	12. Chapter 12

_**.**_

I never thought this case could be so dangerous. It was a blackmail in the city. Some top profile business man had contacted Mycroft Holmes, that had passed on the case to his brother Sherlock.

Sherlock had said No.

Then, probably to mess with his brother, he had taken the case anyway.

I was called as he intended to extract the sensitive information in a flash drive located at an office building, ten-storeys high, in Central London. It was meant to be a straightforward break-in. Quiet. Simple. Fast.

So when the burglar alarm pierced the office's silence, Sherlock and I both froze in shock.

'John?' he calls out my name in a yell, trying to be heard above the shrieking noise of the siren.

'It wasn't me!' I yell back, sharing one intense look with my friend. Comprehension hits us at the same time. We aren't alone.

Someone else has broken in and triggered the alarm.

Enemies, most definitely.

I pat my gun on my waistband, to let Sherlock know I'm ready to face them. He has other plans. He has just located the flash drive. The most imperative thing is to take it to safety now.

All in all, Sherlock has a conscience. And the blackmail isn't about a sordid affair. That wouldn't have taken the interest of Mycroft Holmes. Government officials, maybe even whole nations are likely involved.

Sherlock and I dash back to the lift. He's taking the natural lead, I'm covering our traces, gun in hand. The alarm still blares over our heads, muffling any other sound the extra intruders may do.

I'm relieved to realise the burglar alarm did not automatically call off the lift. In fact, the doors open immediately to the shinny bright metal interior booth. We go in fast enough, Sherlock's already punching the ground's floor button. His appearance is calm and collected, but his eyes shine with the same thrill that leaves me clenching and unclenching my hand.

Suddenly all lights go off inside the lift and it briskly jerks, halting its march. Sherlock and I are thrown to the floor by the unexpected halt.

'Sherlock? Are you okay?' I try to gather my thoughts in the pitch dark lift.

'We're currently stuck between the fourth and fifth floors.'

Only Sherlock would have been counting the floors.

'Are you sure you're alright?' I insist.

'It's Thursday the 14th, we're in London, I don't know who the Prime Minister is – do we have a Prime Minister, John? – I live in Baker Street and I have a brother who knows who the Prime Minister is; enough to assure you my memory was not affected by the fall?'

'Hit your head, then?' I gather.

'Yes', he confesses.

'I'll check it later', I promise.

'After we get out of here', he concedes.

Sherlock flairs up the light on his phone's screen so we can better look around in our metal sarcophagus.

'They might be listening in on us', I warn Sherlock in a tight whisper. He shrugs.

'They won't learn anything new about us, John. We need to focus on getting out of here before they get to us.' He's got a point. I look up to the ceiling. That's where in the movies the heroes get out through. I study the bolts and light fixture.

'John, give me your gun.' I give it to him, absent-mindedly. I trust all of his ideas, even the unspoken ones.

He's already stretching to reach the ceiling with his fingertips, I'm holding his phone with the light app up for him although, obviously, my hand won't reach as far high.

Sherlock uses the butt of my gun to dislodge the panel, we both smile.

Our relief is short-lived. Someone is already pounding on the lift door, trying to pry it open, to reach us and the flash drive.

'Hurry!' I ask him, not even troubling myself with speaking in a whisper anymore.

With a jump he grasps the edges of the open panel and pushes himself up, wriggling his way in by sheer physical power.

Very acrobatic and all, Sherlock, why don't I just stand here and watch?

I can't reach the lift's ceiling.

He kneels from the top and slowly, so not to aggravate his head injury, bends down and reaches to me. I take his hand, trusting, as the steel door is starting to fault, opening a few millimetres wide.

In a couple of seconds I'm already standing on my elbows, wriggling my legs in the air. He yanks me all the way up, easing the pressure on my shoulder. Then he hands me the gun back. I stare at him, confused.

'_Just drop it, John_', he tells me, with a sparkle in his eyes.

_Oh._

I push him to the metal shelf-like steps on the dirty concrete walls of the lift's shaft. He climbs a few steps and waits for me. I'd try convincing him to climb and leave, to take the flash drive to safety, but I know I'd be wasting my time.

And time is definitely of the essence.

I pull the gun, aiming it through the open panel. My other hand is already on the closest step in the wall. Before those doors open wider I need to do this. I take a deep breath, tickling the trigger. Then I squeeze it.

The electronics panel sizzles with a short-circuit as soon as the bullet hits it. Next moment I feel the ground under my feet evading me. The lift starts crashing loose, free-falling. I grab to the wall step as hard as I can. The whip-lash of the ground's disappearance pulls the muscles of my left shoulder in a painful yank. I knew it, I expected it, but it still knocks the wind out of me, lights swim in front of my eyes, my fingers falter...

Only then I realise Sherlock has step down as much as he could from above me and is grabbing me by my jumper's collar, afraid my messed up shoulder could have failed me.

The lift's door had been abandoned when the lift departed in its free-fall to crash at the end of the shaft in a noisy cloud of dust. Now the noises at the fourth floor are returning. No time to waste. I'm glad I'm in the front, I can keep an eye on him, grab him if the head injury makes him dizzy.

Amazingly Sherlock and I make fast progress, and exit the building before the enemy is back onto us. We take a cab to Mycroft's office to deliver the flash drive, the cabbie is trying to strike up conversation about a football game, Sherlock has taken refuge in his mind palace, and I'm trying not to giggle out loud as the cabbie crosses the corner just as Scotland Yard arrives to respond to the bloody burglar alarm.

I look over at Sherlock. Impassive, detached, not really seeing the city landscape outside the window. I sometimes wonder where his mind goes to, how that mind palace of his is. This time I'll just take advantage of it to have a look at his forehead bruising. He comes back to reality with a startle.

'John!'

'Just want to have a look, Sherlock. Hold still, will you?' I ask him tiredly.

He ponders me for a couple of seconds, then settles back in the seat. I go back to touching and probing his forehead, he just keeps his eyes closed, looking as relaxed as a cat on a hot sunny roof. Back to his mind palace. I know it's a compliment. I'm the only one he ever allows to doctor him. I guess we make a good team.

And we might have just saved a foreign nation.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: Yes, I know. Lifts don't work this way. I can't ever find the panelled ceiling, the door wouldn't stay stubbornly closed, and lifts don't just fall down. Highly ludicrous. I bowed to the stereotypical lift because it's fun.  
I've been trapped enough times on faulty lifts though to know that the lights go off, so I made sure to include that bit. -csf_


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: I don't think Mycroft (through Sherlock) would let this happen, let alone trigger it, but I'll write it up and attribute it to one very stubborn JW._

_This is what I needed to write, right now. And sadly it's just too plot-less to turn it into a story (at least for my writing skills). -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Three months, eleven days. That's how long I came back for. "_Went back"_, sorry.

I'm on the airplane now, flying back to London Stansted, surveying the landscape of a familiar London from up above as the nose of the plane inches down.

Somewhere out there is Baker Street. I'd love to make it out on the aerial view, but Sherlock is the one with all the mental maps of his beloved city.

I want to see the Thames, the Tower, Scotland Yard premises, my place, Sherlock's place. I want to lay a hand on the sidewalk's concrete and feel its warmth, take it in, let it ground me. I don't care who's watching. I want to _feel_ London, and leave the desert behind. The battlefield. The medic tent. The ones I helped and the ones I failed. I can still hear them all. The darkness under my eyelids is never enough to drown them when I close my eyes, when I try to sleep.

I went back to the war because I chose to.

My choice.

Sherlock was against it, of course. He was very verbal about it too. At least at first. Then he quieted down, sulking. Then he went to Mycroft, but Mycroft was the one that let me know I could be of assistance with the team in the field. Then Sherlock punched Mycroft. So I insisted Sherlock needed to apologise to Mycroft. Next thing I know Mycroft is the one apologising, to me. I didn't back down, I couldn't. There was a mission for me. I was needed. My country, my people needed me. I'd go now even if he tried to stop me. Which he did. They both did. But there was no turning back then. I needed to do this. And I did.

Three months, eleven days.

It was exhilarating, intense, challenging, just like the last times. I feel like I've done good, I counted. Everyday life in London sounds meaningless now. Only the small things matter still, some have even higher value. A nice hot (sandless) cup of tea. To keep me warm. It's always too cold in London. Jumpers too. I should get me a nice new jumper.

The plane wheels touch the ground with a brisk impact. It's London, finally.

Mary can't make it to the airport. I haven't told anyone else I'm coming home. They have their lives, and I've left them suddenly. Mrs Hudson was in shock, Greg was berating me, Harry was too busy to answer my calls so she doesn't even know. Sherlock... after the sulk he wanted to come with me. I think I laughed him away. I rather have an angry Sherlock, than a sad one. In the end he wrote me nice letters. About the cases, London, Mrs H, Greg and Molly. He told me he was improving his Latin. He told me he had bought a pair of goldfish. He mentioned an unsuccessful scientific experiment and that the fish were gone. Same old Sherlock. He never asked me about the battlefield. I never told him. It was less dangerous this time and he knew it. Except for Mycroft's mission. But even then I made it out just in time.

I was very lucky.

I don't care how expensive it is; I'm getting on a cab. I've earned it. I want to see London again as soon as possible. See it approaching through the windows.

Seatbelts sign's off, at last. My duffle bag is hand luggage. I'm one passport check away from the cab that takes me home. _I realise that I'm already home._

I missed it.

Feels like I went to hell and back. _I did._

I muse over it for a while. Passport checks out, AOK.

Arrivals gate and families are reunited, hugs, tears, joy. I watch them with a soft smile. Meaningless. Don't they know there's a war out there? No, of course not. And they shouldn't.

I can carry enough darkness for all of them. I already do.

I shiver out of the blue. I guess I'm more tired than I thought. Definitely a cab.

A line of free cabs is waiting at the other end. Suddenly one of them speeds up and takes a brisk halt right next to me. I assume he's desperate for cash. His colleagues will probably report him, though. The sound of braking tires reminds me of the excess adrenaline still flowing in me and I smile. The adventurous cabbie has earned me as a passenger. I get in with a sigh. He hits the gas, so to speak. I feel alive again. Like I've been waiting for this for three months, eleven days. I give him my address.

'No', he tells me.

I freeze and glare at him.

Then I recognise him.

_Sherlock._

'You're kidnapping me, now?' I find it amusing. So does he.

'Baker Street, John.'

'Look, Sherlock, I'm tired and... _sandy_.' There's so much I can't tell him.

'I'll make you a cup of tea, the fireplace is already lit, the goldfish misses you.' He says all that in one breath and insistent voice.

'I thought there was "science", Sherlock', I remind him.

'Please refrain from mentioning that in front of Hamish IV.'

'_Hamish?_' I repeat, frowning. Hate that name. 'Why _Hamish_?'

'They kept dying. I couldn't name them _John_ if they—' He loses his speech before ending his sentence. I get it, though.

'I see. _Hamish._ The fourth. Why a goldfish, Sherlock?'

'You ask the most annoying questions, John', he huffs. 'Just drop it, John, will you?'

I sit back with a smirk, my tags jingle over my army clothes. Need to store them away. I'm in London now. I'm home.

_**.**_


	14. Chapter 14

_**.**_

An amazing case solving and Sherlock was in an all time high. I had found myself smiling at a crime scene (a bit not good, even for a victory smile), and Greg was baffled by Sherlock's abilities once again. The three of us are returning to Baker Street for a late coffee, before splitting up.

'Come in, Lestrade, make yourself at home. I have an extra room upstairs now.' Sherlock says those unusual words as if he's trying to show me that he can be polite, or just plain trying to aggravate me. I glance darkly at him, then politely at Greg.

'Are you sure you're alright there, John? You look a little stiff in the shoulder, maybe you should have someone take a look at that.'

_No._

'I'm a doctor. All I need is a mirror to have a look at it myself. I can do it later, Greg.'

_Later._

The DI is looking suspiciously at Sherlock's silence when he insists: 'I'll get you a mirror myself, just get rid of your shirt so we can have a look. I've seen my fair share of scuffles before... I'm really concerned, John.'

_Still no._

I'm sure of one thing, I'm not showing anyone my frail messed up shoulder. Greg senses it and insists: 'It's this or I call an ambulance and you can have it looked at in hospital, John.'

_You're bluffing, Greg._

Sherlock comes close, with a towering attitude and a hint of concern. _It's two against one now._ 'John, just drop it... Do that already.'

'I've seen plenty of gunshot wounds before', Greg assures me, sensing that might be the problem.

_You don't get it._

I'm quite sure I gave him a condescending smile. With one last glance at Sherlock with all his attention now focused on me as if I was his newest case, I admit to unbuttoning and removing my shirt at last. As I expected (I'm a doctor and a soldier after all, I knew what it'd look like to them) my shoulder looks heavily bruised. A mixture of reds and purples over what contrasts as a lightning-white scar, spidery thin surgical lines converging to a messed jumble of thicker skin and scar tissue. Greg manages to keep himself silent, but he pales none the less. When he realises his reaction is so obvious, he says, awkwardly: 'I didn't know it was this bad, John. Now I'm even more worried.'

_Shut up, will you?_

'I'm fine, I just need some rest', I voice out loud, calmly.

'Stay in the sofa, I can heat you some food', Greg volunteers his way into 221B's kitchen, with more faith than I'd have in its contents.

Sherlock has been scrutinising my expression when he assures Greg: 'I can do that, it's okay.' I can see Greg enjoys Sherlock's offer (a genuine care that he hardly ever lets the world see), and with one last glance at me, or mostly at my exposed shoulder, he promises we'll meet again tomorrow.

Sherlock and I watch him leave 221B before the detective turns to me and tells me: 'It was worth it, John, we did good. Naturally I didn't want you to get hurt, that was a miscalculation.'

_He feels guilty._

I cut him short: 'It's okay, Sherlock, I knew the risk. I'd do it all again. This is what we do.'

_I'm a soldier, and a doctor. This is me all over. It's fine._

He nods, but I can see he's torn, his humanity is rebelling against my fate. I can't help but smile. I appreciate his anger over this evening's events. I appreciate his silent intention of never letting it happen again.

_I'll keep him protected as well._

It's not a small thing like this that can ever drive me away. What Sherlock, Greg and I did this evening was a good thing, we saved lives, and I'm keeping that in mind. Only next time, I'll duck from the attacker faster.

'How about that coffee, Sherlock?'

He nods to himself. Unlike Greg, he can go past the sight of my messed up shoulder. He can look me straight in the face. He knows a part of it will heal again. He even knows this might happen again, and so do I.

'We both need it', he says. I wonder if he's talking about a cup of coffee or the Game.

'Yes we do', I agree to both.

_**.**_


	15. Chapter 15

_**.**_

Sherlock's in another one of his _this-case-is-a-Ten_ outings. He called me at the clinic, asked (_demanded, actually_) that I came by Baker Street before heading home. He's so absorbed in his new case that he probably isn't aware of the massive storm alert pending over London. The bad weather is supposed to hit its higher notes in London tonight. He's so enthralled (_maniac, actually_) that I'm confused as to how he even remembered calling me.

As soon as I ended that call (_Sherlock ended it, really_), I called Greg Lestrade. He promised to keep an eye on Sherlock for me. Then I called Mary and told her I might be late – she assured me I most certainly will if Sherlock Holmes' the cause.

Strong winds crisscross over Baker Street. People rush home under flapping inside-out umbrellas that just won't cover the drizzle that has started to pour. Garbage roles freely out of the bin, cars screech brakes as they approach red lights, it's as if the whole street – probably the whole city – is on edge.

So here I am at 221 Baker Street, opening the door with my old key, then banging it shut under some persuasion against the wind.

I take off my damp jacket and hang it in the hall. I allow my gestures to take longer than usual. I feel tired, achy and melancholic. I'm glad Sherlock isn't here to deduce me right now. A cup of tea and I'll be fine.

Once again I overworked at the clinic, detecting the faint signs of a heart-attack in progress in a stubborn old man that came in wanting a prescription for cough medication, cheering up a toddler that ate all the loose change from his mother's purse, and assembling three broken ankle casts (three bothers, ice skaters, none of them very good at it, but – by god – they were persistent...)

All in the past, I gather with a faint smile, rubbing my aching shoulder as I climb the stairs to 221B. Long hours and London's bouts of stormy weather get to it sometimes. I vaguely wonder if Sherlock ever knew that. Probably. Never could hide much from him. That's what you get from living a year and a half with the world's only consulting detective.

I'm old. That's _my_ deduction as I halt on the first landing, closing my eyes tight, protecting my mind from the pain.

Rheumatic pain, I minimise. What the old war wound has created, my body has mended long ago. _This should have gone away too._

I'm holding onto the banister. I hadn't noticed I was swaying before. _The damn rain is really getting to me this evening._

Unsteady steps lead me back to the hall and my jacket. I grab the damned painkillers. I hate how groggy they leave me. I'll take them later. After Sherlock. After Mary.

This is embarrassing enough. I don't want them worrying about me.

With a deep breath I resume my way to 221B. Slowly.

_**.**_

221B's door is usually open ajar. Today I find it closed. I frown at the inexplicable sight, but – hey – I was invited in. I've seen it all inside, don't think Sherlock will mind if I get in.

There was that time all of the kitchen had turned blue, the other time Sherlock was shooting at the wall above the sofa, once I found him sprawled on the floor drunk _for science, John!_, another time there were three Chinese trapeze artists doing a routine in the middle of the living room. And these weren't even the weirdest, but I smile anyway.

Baker Street never fails to cheer me up. Still feels like home. Especially on a damp stormy night.

I'm reaching for 221B's door with a stupid grin on my face and the door pulls away on its own.

Actually, it's Sherlock. He's home. and immediately he ushers me in. I hide the pills deeper in my pocket. He mustn't know.

'Thought you were on an important case, Sherlock!'

'Solved it', he shrugs. 'It was a Seven at best.'

'Right...' A few seconds go by as we stand in the living room, awkwardly quiet. He's very intent on analysing me. 'You called me and asked me to come by?'

He snaps of his daytime abstraction. 'Oh, right! Can I borrow your phone?' He waves off his hand in the air. 'You can put it on my chair.'

'You called me to come by and drop off my phone, Sherlock?' He doesn't even begin to see what is wrong with that. He never does.

'Yes, of course. _Just drop it, John_. I'll use it later.'

I blink. This is very reminiscent of past conversations. With a defeated sigh I just toss him my phone and turn to leave. I'm throughout done with this conversation this evening. He bends over in reflex to grab it before it smashes on the ground. He may even be surprised, I notice without paying attention.

'Keep it, Sherlock. I'll come back for it tomorrow if it's okay with you.'

'John!' he calls me urgently. I look over my stiff shoulder at him. He looks jittery, as he asks me: 'How about a cup of tea?'

I glance out of the windows. The storm is still building. I'm sure I have time to make him tea, though. I see now that he looks as if something is bothering him. I feel guilty I was so gruff. Maybe it was more than just the phone after all.

'Yeah, sure', I mutter. I won't let him know, I'm plotting to take a couple of pills early. The subway ride home, full of people in a rattled compartments seems impossible on my shoulder without those painkillers. I hate taking them, the side-effects floor me every time.

'John.' Sherlock halts me on the way to the kitchen with an imperative gesture, yet his voice is delicate. I look at him, confused. 'I can make tea', he assures me. 'Take a seat by the fireplace.'

I follow his gaze to my favourite armchair. It does look inviting. At least for a couple of minutes.

'Sherlock, tell me about your case', I invite as I sit down.

'Later', he dismisses, briskly.

Somehow he manages to work with the water kettle and tea leaves, and comes back with a cup for me as well as one for him.

Again I feel like he takes one second too long watching me, as if studying me. But he's Sherlock. He sometimes does that.

'Do you mind if I play the violin?' he asks me politely. I smile. I like hearing him play. He makes all those difficult plays sound so effortless. As he takes the bow over the reverberating strings I realise I'm the one staring at him now, as the melody drifts inside me, fills me warm, and distracts me from my hurting shoulder. Slowly I relax, sinking deeper into the chair. The day's exhaustion is dragging me into sleep. A peaceful slumber eases on me.

_**.**_

'_Sherlock, I was looking all over for you!'_

I wake up startled to the sound of DI Lestrade's voice. Whatever happened, it's not good. Greg is cross with Sherlock.

All the while Sherlock is glaring dangerously at the inspector, his violin and his bow still held on each hand, but now lowered.

'I'm here, Gregory. This is both my professional and home address. I would expect you to know that by now.'

'Sherlock, you disappeared from the crime scene, what did you expect me to do? Oh, hi, John!' he only seems to notice me now, frowning. 'You left the case open, Sherlock!' he went on the next instant.

'I solved it', Sherlock gestured vaguely.

'Yeah? How about telling me?'

'Why, again, am I doing your job, Inspector?'

'Because you love it.' Greg sustained the blow, self-assuredly.

True. But he's Sherlock. He also loves to flaunt the answer that has eluded the Yard. He never fails to shoot a fast string of deductions to Greg. Instead, this evening he has left the crime scene suddenly and returned to Baker Street to meet me.

I don't understand.

Greg, on the other hand, assures us that Sherlock can tell him who the criminal is tomorrow. The storm will surely keep him in the city. The airplanes have been grounded already. As fast as he came, he's now leaving.

I frown, starting to grasp, as Sherlock is banging the door shut after Greg.

_Sherlock knows._ He left a crime scene early to hang around me because he's seen me in these storms before. He found his blogger more important than boasting from a Seven-in-Ten case, and he's been disguising his real intent yet again.

He's been playing the violin because he knows it helps me relax, and ease my shoulder pain. The lit fireplace, the tea, it's all to ease my discomfort.

Sometimes I hate that people out there don't know of the warm heart hidden under the cold mask.

I hope one day I get the chance to repay him.

**.**


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Thanks for the interest. Sorry I was away for so long. - csf_

* * *

_**.**_

If anyone knew why, it was Sherlock.

But even to Sherlock, I didn't tell a thing.

Every year, without fault, I disappeared for one day. One single day, alone. That was all it took, that was what it was owed. One particular day of the calendar, it held a very specific meaning.

I kept it a secret as a benefit to myself. It wasn't that I wanted to keep it from others' knowledge, or to take profit from delayed revelation. It was that its significance was so special to me that it felt wrong, mundane, to share it with anyone else. And it came with a very specific routine.

_That day of the year, I was nowhere to be found._

Oh, yes, Sherlock knew it.

He was even a little bit tense about it when he asked me to accompany him in one of his cases in the far North on the day before the date. (That was today.) With all the train travelling, it was a far stretch to finish it before sunrise of the Day. (Tomorrow.) The one time of the year I needed to be back in London and just vanish with the morning lights.

'It's an open and shut case, John. We'll be back in the last train, you'll see.' Sherlock's promise was firm and faithful, and is still ringing in my ears when the criminal has caught up with us, and locked us up inside an abandoned freezer of a farm. Luckily for us, the freezer is disconnected, as the property has been on the homeowners market for a few months. Still, we are very adamantly contained in what is essentially an oversized refrigerator with nothing but ourselves in it, and a most stubborn lock on the door.

I bang and kick at the door, viciously. It's more than just us being stuck there until someone finds us. The criminal has no idea of how this has troubled my plans. I further kick a couple more times the barrier from the outside world, fiercely, but to no avail. I take the metal handle and shake it ferouciously for good measure. '_Just drop it, John_', I hear Sherlock telling me tiredly. 'We'll get out eventually.'

_This is it._

For the first time, I'm going to miss an anniversary. The Day is lost.

It feels like an impending doom, as I realise we are never going to get out of there in time. I'm sitting on the floor with my knees drawn up to my chest, I lower my head in defeat. I feel lousy.

It also makes me livid. The disrespect carried by my actions – or absence, to be precise – is appalling and inexcusable. This should never have happened, how could I even let it be a possibility?

I shake my head in silence, how could I not? I wasn't to leave Sherlock in danger alone. _I still feel like crap._

_Sherlock can never know._ This one thing I need to keep just to myself.

There is nothing he can do for me anyway. This is my burden to carry. _Alone is what I've got; alone protects me._ Sherlock always said that. Carefully, I've always deconstructed that dangerous assumption in my best friend, shown him I was there for him to lean on, or even to ignore on one of his sulks. He is not alone. I'm not going anywhere. I believed I could make a difference for him. Only I've understood where his reasoning came from, all along. Every rule has an exception. _This is mine_. The Day doctor John Watson disappears. Alone.

'John? You're distracted, I can tell.'

_Brilliant deduction, mate._ 'It's nothing, Sherlock. Never mind.' I throw him an empty smile as a free gift in with the assurance.

'You didn't want to come and I promised you that we'd return in time.' He's dead serious, staring me with his green tinged eyes.

I nod, sharply. I know he keeps his promises. That's Sherlock for you. The self-proclaimed sociopath doesn't do failed promises. He can lie, manipulate and piss off the people he cares about, but one thing he holds dear in his heart; he won't break a promise or a vow. He hardly ever makes one either. 'It's okay, Sherlock, I know you did your best.'

'No, it's not okay', he stated calmly, looking away. 'Intentions hardly count in face of my miscalculation. It has kept you... from your _habits_.'

Sometimes he has the emotional maturity of a small child. He's upset with himself that he somehow failed me. I smile a bit more honestly now, touched by his reasoning. 'No one could have foreseen what happened, Sherlock. And Greg knows we're here. Eventually he'll realise we've been gone too long and he'll come looking for us.'

'We'll still miss the last train to London.'

I feel that my expression is verging on strained now. 'Well, yes, I guess so. It hardly matters.'

He glares at me, with a knowing expression. He shoots out the words, as a deduction at some crime scene: 'It's an anniversary. But it's not a family or fiend's anniversary, that would hardly require the need for secrecy. No, you celebrate something you won't want to share even with me, John. You know I can usually read you like an open book, yet you've fought me all the way with this one secret, this is the one you chose to be stubborn with (even though I'm the best detective in London, possibly in a wider region as well, let's go with London for now). Therefore it's something you are not proud off, but you've come to terms with. From the current psychosomatic stiffness in your shoulder and right leg, I assume it's connected to your career as an Army Doctor. You celebrate the day you were shot, and your military career ended. Most of all, it's the day that triggered your collapse on a campaign hospital in Afghanistan. You almost died, John. But that's not what you celebrate, it's not why you disappear. It's about the insurgents you've had to defend yourself against, and the ones that fell down on battle after you were shot, and you couldn't tend to all of those lives. But it's not even about that. It's the anniversary of the day you left your unit behind. It's not about what happened to you. If it were, you wouldn't go away every year. Sulking in silence would be more like it. No, this is about you leaving behind your team when they needed you the most. Every year, you meet with your former team, at least with the ones that can make it to London from all over the country, the ones that are not currently deployed overseas. They chose this date. You wouldn't have willingly chosen such a difficult day out of the year. No, they chose this date, to honour you, because even injured, you still saved lives. They refuse to forget that, John. I kept you in a freezer because we were trying to catch a murderer. I kept their hero from them. John, there may still be some way to get you to the reunion in time.'

In all these years, I never really learnt to stop being somewhat surprised and awed at Sherlock's deductions. This time he's deducting my best kept secret. Always with ease.

Before I can reassure him again, noises pluck us from our conversation. Police cars arriving at the scene. Sherlock and I turn to each other. _Greg._

We are about to be freed.

_It's already too late. _The train is leaving the station at this very moment. Next train will get me to London at noon, and from there to our meeting site it will be all over.

Sherlock still glances at me before starting to pound at the freezing unit door. Even with the isolating thickness the police is bound to hear us. Slowly I get up from the floor to help him.

I felt somewhat lighter, having shared my secret. Still, missing this anniversary keeps weighting on me.

With a smile, I realise Sherlock has just taught me what I have strived to teach him all along. None of us needs to be alone.

Greg and his men finally force the freezer door open. A wave of relief washed over all of us. Greg ushers us out at once. I can see that he's approaching Sherlock with an angry tone, but this time I'll let them work it out on their own. I take out my phone, there is a list of calls I need to make. Before I can start, Sherlock's long fingers cover the screen, startling me. I hadn't noticed he had sneaked up on me.

'John, we're late, we should go.'

'What?'

'I called in a favour from Mycroft. I assume you don't oppose helicopter rides?' he smirks, with a twinkle in his eyes. 'Greg can take our statement later this week.'

'Sherlock...'

'I never break a promise, John, you should know that by now.'


	17. Chapter 17

_**.**_

'John...?'

'Yes, Sherlock?' I ask him back, noticing his hesitation as I lower my newspaper slowly. A nice quiet evening at Baker Street is all I was asking for. No such luck with Sherlock Holmes.

'Are you... _alright_?'

I take a fast suspicious glance at my surroundings.

'Just fine. Thanks. _Why?_'

'You're looking pale.'

'Oh. Hm. Haven't the faintest idea why.'

'As we are speaking your heart rate is slightly elevated, your blinking rate has increased, your left arm is tucked against your abdomen indicating a guarding behaviour not entirely conscious, there is a slight perspiration to your brows and you've been ticking the edge of the armrest in your chair for the last nine minutes... John, you have been working at the clinic.'

'Of course, Sherlock, I'm a doctor.'

'You've been in contact with sick people.'

'It's part of the job description, yes. Where are you going with this? You think I've got some virus, don't you?' I smirk at his foreseeable defence.

'No, no! I'm sure you're just fine, John! You're a doctor after all.' He rearranges his place on the chair, growing minutely further apart from me. I roll my eyes to spike him. He presses his lips.

'There was this patient this morning, though, he had the most nasty... You know what? Never mind, Sherlock.' _This is fun._

'I know what you're trying to do, John. It's childish and a malpractice for a GP.'

His affronted demeanour makes me giggle. 'Sherlock, I'm fine!' I reprimand. 'And _thanks_, by the way, I should say. You're the one that invited me over!'

'John, I...' he starts.

'Don't you dare removing your invitation, Sherlock!' I interrupt him, darkly. 'You're being too hypochondriac for a man with little sense of personal space and personal property, and mostly for a man who still badgers Molly for the morgue's "excess" body parts!'

'I don't bother Molly!'

I close my eyes for a second aghast. As I open them again, he's already standing behind his armchair, still eyeing me attentively. I don't know how he found the space to fit in between the chair and the window still.

'Don't worry, Sherlock', I smirk. 'I won't get ill. I sleep enough, and eat carefully, I don't smoke and I exercise.'

'That's no rule to keep virus at bay, John. Seriously, where did you take your medical degree?'

I ignore his jab. _One second. Two. Three. Four—. _He adds:

'Maybe I could do with some food and rest.'

'And your cigarettes?' I take advantage of the moment, for his own good.

'In the skull in the mantle.'

As he moves onto 221B's kitchen I take hold of the skull and its prized contents.

Sherlock is sniffing loudly, now. A reflex of suggestion, I dismiss without effort. I go back to my chair and stash the cigarettes behind the Union Jack pillow. I take my seat and my newspaper again.

'John, is lemon tea really good for you?'

'Yes. Add some honey, Sherlock. You'll like it sweet.'

'Why is it good, John?'

I smile for I know this will be a blog entrance on 243 different varieties of orange zest, soon. Before I can say anything a chill rattles me, out of the blue.

_Damn._

_No fun now._

Immediately I feel Sherlock sneaking up on me. He's noticed. I'll never hear the end of it now.

'John, is lemon tea good for you?' he repeats.

'Yes, Sherlock. I told you the tea will be good for you.'

'Will you just drop it, John? I can see you're clearly ill. I mean lemon tea for _you_, obviously. What else can I do?

'Sherlock, I'm not sick.'

'Don't be an idiot!'

'I'm not, I'm a doctor. And I'm not sick... Sherlock, where are you going?'

He's already throwing his coat over him.

'To the pharmacy. I'll be back before you start having chills and nausea...' With a better look at me, he amended: 'I'll be back soon.'

'Sherlock, wait!'

As I try to get up from my chair he immediately grabs me. Just in time, or I may have tripped over to the floor. _But I'm not sick. It's not flu._

'Just rest for a bit, John.'

I look up to the man who's holding me up in his arms, confused. The man who has a refrigerator that doubles up as a morgue, who never gets ill himself (maybe Mycroft's scientists have a say on that), and dreads diseases. He's convinced I'm sick and he's just come to my aid. I wonder what would take for him to drop me. A sniffle, a sneeze, a diagnosis?

'I'm okay, Sherlock.'

He shakes his head with a hint of a knowing smile. 'Just rest some, John. It's time someone doctors you for a change.'

_No fun anymore._

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: This one came out of something someone said to me today in passing, just something non-consequential.  
__Slightly hypochondriac Sherlock just makes sense to me, as an extension of his usual contempt for human contact with the majority of humanity. -csf_


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: If anything, it's a bit early for Halloween; beware. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

The press had called the murderer Dr Jekyll, but it was really Mr Hyde that did the deed. I mean it. Turned out, the man they are hunting is actually called Hyde. Chandler Hyde. All along he had turned the Yard's suspicions off him by framing a doctor.

Sherlock was sure the doctor hadn't done it, and for once his thirst for solving the puzzle was openly mingled with a strong sense of justice, wanting to clear the innocent man of the charges.

'A doctor', he's telling me as we share a cab onto the hidden laboratory of Mr Hyde, 'is the only logical suspect of such a foul crime, John. The Yard grossly overlooked the level of expertise required to surgically extract...'

I cut him off, the cabbie is already looking somewhat queasy from overhearing our conversation. 'I saw the bodies, Sherlock.' _I cannot forget them, Sherlock._

'In his mind he's an artist, John, and this is an attempt at a lasting masterpiece.'

'Hm.'

'This is the sort of crime you'd commit, John!' he added, enthusiastically.

'Excuse me?!' I take it personally. _How could I not?_

He actually skips a beat and glances over at me.

'You know what I mean', he scolds me with a frown.

_Right back at you, my friend._

'Sherlock', my voice is betraying the smile I'm trying to contain, 'you can't go around predicting the kind of murderer people would be.'

'Why not?' he acts aloof. 'It saves me the time when we go to crime scenes.'

_I'm lost for words, not for the first time._

He turns to me, and dictates fast, in his deducing mode: 'You'd be a methodical murderer, John. Both your military training and your doctor career showing through. But you're not an idiot. You wouldn't make the mistake of going over the top with rare poisons, or over the top forgotten martial arts. No, no. You'd come up with an easy, clean, painless way of murdering someone. Am I right, John?'

I drop my head into my hand. He's forgetting I had bad days. At war. I did what I had to do. I feel no vindication or success over it. _I feel no peace either._

Sherlock is on fire, deducing the murders people walking the street would commit, ignoring the faux pas. I sink my hand lower into my hand, searching for some sort of oblivion as I rub my eyes. I try to focus on the outrageous things he's saying.

'... she'd use the two pet snakes she keeps at her basement, it was obvious from the two identical sets of puncture wounds on her forearm that she's been building up her level of tolerance to the snake's poison, so she's probably planning a murder for the end of this week, if not before...'

'Sherlock', I start, with caught voice, trying to repress the images floating in my mind, conjured by his words.

'I know what you're going to say, John, I'll call Lestrade later, I won't forget. He can get her through the registry for dangerous pets, we can narrow down where she lives by the particularities of her hairstyle... That old man over there would use his Japanese collector's swords, evidently.'

'Evidently...' I mutter, fixing my gaze on the cab window by my side.

Too many images, some I recognise from my past, I can't control them anymore; and smells too, overwhelming me. A claustrophobic feeling of panic is rising on my chest.

Keeping my face well away from the detective's line of sight I force myself to breath slowly and count.

It will go away. It's not real.

The cab is real. The seat is real. I can feel the air entering my lungs, I need more oxygen before I pass out. Sherlock's voice is drowned in the white noise that is building up between my ears. I need to focus on his voice. Just the sound of his voice. Not his words. Let his voice ground me.

'... he'd actually torture his victims beforehand. He's a sadist. I can't tell Lestrade on him, John. He hasn't done it yet. The law is absurd...'

My hand goes to the door handle, and I grab it tightly. _I need out._ Not enough air in here.

'John, pay for the cab, will you? We're here, haven't you noticed?'

I'm startled, and I look from Sherlock to the view outside. The police tape of white and blue is a vivid contrast to the crime scene predominant colour. My stomach turns. The cab driver doesn't even turn his neck in the scene's direction. I don't blame him.

As Sherlock opens his door, the smell assaults us.

Something clicks in me this time. Maybe it's experience. I know I'm needed in order for justice to be done, I need to help Sherlock. The smell, the colour, all fades away in face of the present moment.

_**.**_

As soon as I'm out of the cab, it's driving away fast. Not the only one. The last of the investigators are already leaving the scene. Greg greets us from a distance. Then, with a second look, more of an inquisitive nature, he walks over to us.

'You don't look so great, John', he starts, with friendly concern. 'Are you sure you want to be here?'

Sherlock glances at me and dismisses at once: 'He's seen worst.'

I nod, thankful for my friend's instinctive downplay of my vulnerability.

'Yeah, guess so', Greg weights in. 'Come this way, guys.'

'Your forensic technician is about to go sick on the crime scene', Sherlock points out simply.

'Oh, for the love of...' Greg is protesting under his breath. Sherlock follows him to see the evidence already collected by the sickly forensic.

I'm drawn to the primary site. It's ghastly, and horrendous, and _wrong_. I kneel by the victim's side, a surge of sadness is swallowing me from the inside out. Sadness for that victim, and so many others I couldn't mend back together.

Then everything goes black, as pain erupts viciously.

_**.**_

A strong headache is threatening to split my head into pieces, as I gather my senses. I try to shelter my eyes with my hands, but I find them restrained at the wrists. I look around. I'm in some sort of basement, laid out on a surgical table, fastened to it.

_Not good._

Someone knocked me out at the crime scene, then dragged me out of there to this improvised hospital scenery. Who? Dr. Jekyll.

I've seen what he does to his victims. Now I'm his next victim. The bastard is loving it. He must be surveying me from a distance, hoping to see me break before he comes over to finish me off.

I just need to hold firm till Sherlock comes for me.

Deep breaths, John.

You know what this sadistic monster does, and you're not scared of it. You're Captain Watson.

Who'd figure? Payback was due to all the people I had on tables like this. Some I could save, some I had to let go in the end.

Only Sherlock can make this right, now. Unless I'm one of the ones he has to let go.

I can hear Hyde's footsteps coming down into the basement from behind my head. His shadow is casted upon my body. Soon it'll be his hands on me. I hear the metal tools as he selects them.

One second later and he's pressing a blade to my neck, a smile decorating his hideous face. He's got a doctor's coat on, I suppose he fancies himself as one of us. He got it wrong. I'd never do any of this.

He's talking to me, taunting me. I don't even register his words. I know he's detailing his further actions, I know he gets off on his victim's fear. I have nothing to give him. I'm not a victim, Sherlock is on his way.

He lowers the clean blade to my chest, before ripping off my shirt. _I liked that shirt._

The monster is staring at my shoulder, now. He takes his blade to it. My body finally betrays me, and I flinch. Just a minute twitch, but it was what he was hoping for. He deepens the cut. I strain to remain quiet. If I struggle now, the damage will be bigger. Keep steady, soldier. Rescue is imminent.

The smell, the images, they keep assaulting me. I feel the restraints tight against my arms, I must be fighting them. I shouldn't, it'll only accelerate the blood loss.

A noise upstairs – _must be Sherlock at last_ – and the monster leaves me with his scarlet tainted knife.

I roll my head on the cold metal slab. It feels so cold. I'm shivering. Only warm thing is running wet down my arm, reaching my fingers.

I look at it. Always so sure I'd die in the battlefield. When that didn't happen I thought it'd be in the battles of London. I feel cheated in this dingy basement, Sherlock within a few meters distance, no strength left in me to call out to him. Silence and darkness descending upon me.

In one last conscious effort there's a last glimpse of the room before the end. I'd sworn Sherlock is running towards me. And he looks like he's just seen a ghost.

_Maybe he has._

'John!' he's shouting my name, but I can hardly hear him even from one foot away. He presses his scarf on my wound and frees me from the restraints. The whole world spins madly around as he's pushing me up. He's got this crazy idea that I can just walk out of there, I suppose, in an effort for consciousness.

He's cursing now. He's seen the mess left on the table. The forensic team will have a full day with all the bloodletting. This is the latest crime scene. Sherlock and John are already here.

'John, tell me what to do!' he keeps shouting at me, demanding that I do my job, I just nod in comprehension but no words form into speech.

Sherlock must have read something in my eyes because he swiftly turns around, still holding me up like he'll never let go, as I draw out my gun from his coat pocket. The smell of burnt gunpowder joins in with the other smells. The images, I have lost myself to those already. I still hear Sherlock promise me:

'It's okay now, John. You've got him through the heart. It's all going to be okay, now. _Just drop it, John_, he's not coming back. You need to save your strengths. There's an ambulance on its way.'

_I did it._ I saved Sherlock. I can let go now.

_**.**_

Or maybe not. I wake up to someone hooking me up with an IV line, all the while Sherlock is screaming at the paramedics to "fix" me. It's endearing as he threatens and bribes his way into the ambulance ride. He's determined not to leave me alone. I've been on though spots before, but this is the most frantic I've ever seen him, so outside his usual controlled self.

_**.**_

Hospital food is always atrocious, from my experience. Still, I must convince Sherlock to share mine. He's finally asleep in the visitors' chair. He hasn't left my side since the basement, as if he was sorry he left me before.

We've received some sort of commendation, according to Greg Lestrade, for stopping Dr Jekyll. I don't care. I'm just glad it's over. Dr. Watson keeps having bad days; I'll never take a prize for any of them. It can go into the drawer like the others. Or maybe Sherlock will want to experiment on it.

Can't wait to go home and have a nice cup of tea. Sherlock and I will be back at chasing criminals in no time.


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: Another one that is slightly Halloween-ish inspired. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

We entered the old graveyard at the chorus sound of magpies, our footsteps were softened on the frozen ground by the moss covering most of the forgotten headstones and pathways. Partially revealed inscriptions of brave husbands, beloved wives and angelic children. Memories so old that are not treasured anymore, but still decorate the cold stones. I try not to mind them too much, as Sherlock and I methodically search for a particular one. My friend is trying to find proof of a genetic trait in the client's family. In order to do just that, we'll become grave robbers today.

Actually, grave visitors. It's not a robbery if we don't actually take something, right?

Might have to check Sherlock's pockets before we exit the graveyard, though. The man with the fresh body parts refrigerated in the kitchen and a skull decorating the mantelpiece in the living room might take too much liking to this fieldtrip.

Of course Sherlock could have come alone. But claiming a doctor's presence in order to be "more scientific", he invited me along.

_Maintaining scientific standards while grave robbing._ That's Sherlock for you.

It's for a good cause; in the end it's meant to prove a man's innocence, and bring another to justice.

'Best Friday night outing you've had in the last six weeks, John. Stop thinking about complaining, will you?'

Sherlock's words startle me to the core, in the silent yard. I stare at him, stern and not amused. 'Sherlock, have some respect. This is a cemetery.'

'So...?' he's completely missing my point. I sigh. Where do I begin to explain? Before I can, he asks me: 'Did you keep silent and restrained when visiting my grave?'

The lifeless tone of Sherlock's voice isn't enough to drown the loud heart beating thumps in my ears.

'Yes, I did.'

'Why did you think it'd be appropriate?'

I rub my eyes. 'It's one of those things people always do, Sherlock', I end up answering.

'Yeah, but I'm not usual _people_. Why would you do the same with me?'

_It's enough._ 'Sherlock, we're not having this conversation.'

As I prepare to move away, overwhelmed by a simple conversation, he grabs my arm. I won't tell him. I'm glad to feel his fingers squeezing my arm. Otherwise I might still doubt if he was real.

'Sherlock, let's just do what we came here to do, alright?'

He nods. 'At your eleven hundred, John.'

I glance slightly towards my left. He's correct. There's the old tombstone, cracked diagonally with the top part fallen to the ground.

Edmund Chandler, 1850 – 1907. Great-grandfather of our client. Eleven children, merchant by trade, had a rare dominant genetic mutation that caused a specific bone deformity during infancy. That gene was carried through to the client, troubling his walking pace. His brother doesn't have it. Add that to an attempt against our client's life and the money the brothers expect to inherit in the next month...

'Let's get this done and over with, Sherlock. Where are the shovels?'

He frowns. 'Only brought one, John. We can take turns.'

I roll my eyes; it doesn't take a genius to know that I'll be the one digging and he'll be watching from the sideline.

'Warn me if there's someone around, will you?'

Sherlock smirks. 'There are no such things as ghosts, John.'

_Present company excluded._

'Very amusing', I lie, drily. 'I mean we're in a cemetery, it's getting dark, and we're digging up graves. Someone might come to check, or call the police.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Lestrade won't mind.'

'Lestrade is not the only one at Scotland Yard.'

'True, but he's the only one I can, barely, stand. I'd get him to come over.'

'How?' I dare.

'Got you here, haven't I?' he replied, smugly. Somehow I forget to dig the dirt. I turn around to face the man I've been talking to over my shoulder. As I keep digging myself four feet under, he just diverts: 'It's a shallow grave, John. I can see the remnants of the coffin right now, under your feet. In fact...' He's halted by the crashing sound that echoes the grounds as I tumble down. 'In fact', he persists to the empty cemetery, 'there must be an underground natural spring nearby, for the structural properties of the coffin's wood have rotten faster than I as predicting... John, don't be lazy, it's no time to take a break.'

There is an amused light in his eyes as he kneels on the dirt and reaches a hand out to me. I had lost my balance and I've found myself among the wood and bristle skeleton bones under my feet. Fine dust is suffocating me as I shakily support myself up from my bed of dirt and decayed human remains.

'That's not very respectful, John', I hear immediately. I'd answer him, if I wasn't coughing out mummy dust. 'And that's not very healthy either. You should probably leave now, John. We've successfully proven that the client's great-grandfather had the genetic mutation.' And with that he turned away with a coat flair in his wake, leaving me behind.

'Sherlock, a little help here?'

'Hm?' He actually came back, out of curiosity. Then he saw my problem. I had my wrist stuck on the skull's eye socket. '_Just drop it, John_. I already have one of those. You can use my skull anytime you need, John. No need to ask, just take it whenever.'

'Sherlock!'

Before I could further protest over my mock theatre play of Hamlet in the graveyard, we clearly heard noise from a couple of people running inside. Sherlock and I exchanged looks.

_The client's brother._

They are carrying torches in the dusky graveyard and the beams of light flicker as they steadily move in. No way can we dig the dirt back into the grave in time. They'll know we have the proofs now. I'm carrying a tibia with me in case they try to destroy the evidence. Actually, I'm still stuck to the skull, guess I'll have to carry that out as well.

I wonder if this is how Sherlock got his own skull. He never told me its story.

Sherlock is pulling me off the grave with a tight grip. 'I didn't bring my gun, Sherlock!' I confide in tense whisper. 'We can make an escape through the back, _or..._'

He smiles as well. 'Let's catch them in the act, John. The three of us.'

'Three?' I repeat, blank.

'Your new friend there. Do catch up, John.'

'I wasn't counting _him_ in. If you ask me he's a bit of a dead weight.'

We're already running furtively over the yard to find shelter behind a couple of centenary yew trees. Our footsteps tapping the frozen ground in our path. Haphazardly I almost trip over another cracked tombstone, Sherlock is fast to hold me up, not without a preoccupied glance.

'Were you injured, John?'

I don't have the time to answer him. We've just been spotted and singled out with the torches, and I push Sherlock away from a gunshot in the nick of time. _Amateurs_, back there. Can't even shoot two targets straight. I'd show them if I had my gun here. And if my hand weren't stuck at the moment.

'What's our plan, Sherlock?'

Before he could answer, the weirdest thing happened. Both the client's brother and his sidekick were taking the shortest route to us and slid or fell into the dug up grave, like some sort of booby trap. Sherlock and I sprang forward, and jumped inside as well. We restrained them easily at the light of the fallen torches.

By the end of it I was gasping for air, Sherlock was texting Greg Lestrade for police backup, and the skull was still attached on my wrist.

'Come by Baker Street, John, and I'll help you get it out.'

'We'll need to come back here to return it, Sherlock.'

He frowned in discontent. 'Why? It can go in the mantelpiece as well.'

'It's not my skull.'

'Then you shouldn't be walking around with it. What will the police have o say about that?'

I sigh, frustrated, but I'm disguising a natural smile.

Case solved, all in a day's work. Too bad I can't blog about this one. Maybe Sherlock himself will. So long as scientific standards were maintained after all.

**_._**


	20. Chapter 20

_**.**_

Bored out of my wits, here. Maybe Greg is right; I'm only happy when I get to chase some bad guys or save a patient's life. Or I'm with Sherlock, plotting to catch those bad guys. Sherlock is here now, but his mind is long gone as well, bored out of its confinements. I dragged him here. Told him it was a social event, he needed to come. It's a charity, it made sense. He couldn't pass an offer from a charity – not when I happened to know about it – so I volunteered to come along. I can't say I regret it. It's for a greater good, I know that, I'm okay with that. It's just that... I'm so bored right now.

Sherlock Holmes gets to take the impromptu decorated stage, among the coloured paper trims and under the spotlights. _He'll hate it._ Most likely he'll say something he shouldn't, and the shocked audience will pretend to find it funny. He'll be slightly disappointed, give me a very frontal pointed look, and walk off with a mix of hurt and aloof expressions as soon as his back turns on the crowd.

All the while I just stand there. People have been bumping into me as if I was invisible. Maybe I am, as they gather in small conversation clusters. Half of them are drunk already, and that is no help for me to get into the conversation patches around me. It's like I'm functionally mute as well as invisible. If anything, they'd pay attention to Sherlock, he's the hero here. Rightly so. As for me, they graciously allow me to be here. Invisible.

Usually I wouldn't put up with this. I'd leave. But I can't, yet. Sherlock is getting some sort of mock trophy award for his work towards the community. In other words, a chance to photograph him for the local paper within the charity grounds. Preferably in front of the brass gilded sign. _It's for a good cause, Sherlock._

_I need to stay._

Someone has just bumped into me – yet again – muttering half-drunk excuses. Too late, my clothes are drenched in Rosé wine. I'm a freakin' Captain for heaven's sake! Well, I _was_. I'm not anymore. In fact, I won't be in active duty ever again.

Rosé wine; I bite back a bitter chuckle.

This is for Sherlock. This is for the people who need it. Smarten up, Captain!

'Had enough, John?'

Sherlock's words startle me. How on earth did he get close so fast?

There is revenge and bitterness in his tone of voice. He's childishly upset that I made him come. He'd rather do a secretive donation towards the charity. He still might.

'Ready for your close-up with the trophy, Sherlock?' I remind him dutifully, but with humour.

'Later tonight I'm going to test the metal with a variety of strong acids, to see which reacts best with the alloy.'

'You're going to melt it', I understand.

'Naturally. It's for science. What other use can it have?' he frowns.

I smile. Typical Sherlock.

'They are handing it to you because of what you do. You save lives, catch criminals, find kidnapped people and smuggled goods. You do good, Sherlock, and people are thankful. They want to demonstrate that to you.' He still doesn't look as if he got it. Lack of comprehension abounds in his metallic eyes. 'It's a good thing, Sherlock', I summarise.

'Like your medals', he says at last. It sends a shiver down my spine.

'Not really. I only did my orders. One gets medals for that', I smile tightly. He looks as if he won't believe me.

'I seem to remember the expression "above and beyond the call of duty", John.'

I shake my head. I'll take none of that. His expression is tight upon me and then suddenly it morphs into something unreadable.

'They want to hand me a trophy, John. Where's your trophy? Does it come in Rosé pink colour?' he points out in disdain the evident stain in my shirt and suit jacket.

'Sherlock, it's okay', I dismiss, brushing away the stain, mindlessly. I know he's just manipulating me so we'll leave early.

'John. You can't tell me you are happy here. People have bumped into you, ignored you, spilt drinks in your shirt... Why would you want to stay? In case the tall man by the window gets a heart attack because he forgot to take his medication again? Or the fat lady by the sweets table gets a well deserved indigestion?'

'Sherlock...'

'I hate this place, John. You should hate it too. There is only one reason keeping me here now, John. And you better pay attention, instead of your apathetic state and mindless pacing about the room to appear engaged in the social conventions.'

The room erupts in applause at the very end of my friend's words, just as if he had timed them. _He may have._ Stunned, I realise that his name has just been called onto the spotlight.

_Sherlock, please don't start melting the award on stage..._

The man heading the event is talking about the detective, praising him. It's a good thing he's already handed the award to Sherlock. Just like a kid, my friend is analysing it for colour, malleability and weight. Good chances there's a lot of copper in it, or something.

'... a pillar of our society, a man whose intellectual powers beckons him to pursue the ...'

Yeah, this is what happens when Sherlock takes upon himself the speech's proofing. _Wordsy self-praise abounds._

' ... an international reputation, a man of rigorous scientific deductive reasoning and ...'

Come on, Sherlock, you did it on purpose. Boring everyone to death.

_Payback._

' ... wouldn't have succeeded without the acquiescence of Scotland Yard's ...'

_So bored now I'd pay to get more wine spilt on me, just for the change._

_**.**_

'Brought you the paper with your photograph on it, Sherlock', I advertise, entering 221B as a detour before work. As I imagined it's only too early in the morning to be up from bed for those of us who have regular jobs. Sherlock hardly sleeps. Probably never even went to bed.

'Already saw it online', he diverts, absent-mindedly.

Of course he did.

'Oh, hm... Okay, then. I'll leave it downstairs for Mrs Hudson in any case. Bye, Sherlock.'

'Coffee table, John', he interrupts my exit with that sharp instruction. I look at it. There's a thick paper envelope on it. "John H. Watson" it says in Sherlock's handwriting.

'What's this?' I ask, pointing. He ignores me. I pick it up, frowning.

It's heavy and metal scented. As I open the envelope it reveals a flattened metallic blob with a silken strand running through a hole. Like a four years old artwork of a medal. I look over at Sherlock. He smirks at me.

'Fixed it, John.' He's giving it to me. Fixing my invisibility between the both of us. I know he relishes on it for the public as a way to keep me safer from the collection of enemies he has for himself. 'It's now the correct alloy the British Government uses in the Army medals, with the correct ratio of—'

I cut him short, I know he'll ramble on about scientific stuff if I don't: 'Sherlock, I can't have this. It's _your _award.'

'Half of it, actually.'

'Sherlock, I couldn't ever—'

It's his time to cut me short: 'At the end of the day just have a cup of tea, sit on your chair, open your medals box and _just drop it, John_. Make sure you get that one in with the others. You deserved it, Captain Watson.'

I look away, embarrassed. I know he's enjoying the effect his little science project had on me, and he's still smirking, behind my back, as he watches. Sherlock always managed to read right through me and everyone else. His cold exterior hides a warm heart indeed. Not something the public will ever get to know.

_**.**_


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Another half-cooked story that shot out of my pen, and that I suppose I wish I could have written into a full story. (Maybe one day?) I've therefore let myself get carried away, length and plot-wise. (Sorry.) -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

_No, Sherlock, I can't pick up, not right now, I'm working._

The phone on my pocket keeps vibrating from incoming calls, one right after the other. At first they were short bursts of impatience, then maybe another three in longer nagging. Now he's back at short ones if I can tell.

Not good. He knows I can't pick up while at work, and I happen to know he's not in immediate danger.

Lestrade will pick up.

My last patient is leaving the examination room in handcuffs. I've been doing check-ups in the prison population today. Not very usual for a GP like I am these days. I suppose I was asked to join in due to my background as an Army Doctor. Two good expertise to have when you're checking the blood pressure of a cold-blooded murderer as two guards stand and watch by the door.

Better me than my colleagues at the Health Centre; I can handle this.

Sherlock is still impatiently ringing me. For the ninth time. I—

_It spells SOS._ Three dots, three dashes, three dots again. _What on Earth—_

I grab the phone I should have handed over at the entrance but neglected to, glancing at the screen. An ominous message is waiting for me:

"You're in danger. Leave. Now. –SH"

In danger? How? I'm alone as it is. The patient has left.

I look over my shoulder at the door...

_Oh..._

I can recognise the two armed guards' expressions. It's cold-blooded greed. I'm their catch prize.

Sherlock was warning me the best way he could and I ignored him.

The two armed guards are out to get me. There's no way out of this medical ward. They have me.

They'll want to take me out of here. To their leader. I need to stand ground. Till someone else knows I'm in danger. I'll hold them off till help arrives. It's not that easy to take down Captain John H. Watson.

_They can try._

No weapons on my side, and my body to body combat skills aren't at its peak, making me, the short guy, at a disadvantage against two large goons. The medical ward is minimalist at best; for a real medical emergency the patient is transferred out of the prison.

_I'm in trouble._

The two guards lock the only door behind them, making their intentions quite clear. Who sent them? Why me? It's got to be about Sherlock, it always is. A prison is a haven for criminals out to get to my friend for payback. I'm their best way to get to Sherlock. _I'll never allow that._

'You don't need to do this', I remind them in a cold voice. They can still back out.

The taller man laughs derisively. So he's the leader in our little farce. Blonder, slight military stance. The second man obeys his sharp command with a nod, and approaching me.

I roll my eyes at them. Let's get this over with, shall we?

The second man leans to me, to force me into submission, under the supervision of the first man. I realise the man leaning over me with his handcuffs ready is a feet taller and another wider than me. Plus he's armed as well. Tactical one on one combat rules tell me to keep low and avoid a sparkle. I'm playing it cool. Sherlock knows. If there's someone that can fix this now, it's Sherlock.

The man delays the handcuffing and grabs me by my shirt collar with one hand, half-lifting me from my chair. He's stinky breath is upon me as he mutters: 'Boss wants you alive. He didn't' insist on you being all in one piece, John.'

'And yet...' I taunt back.

'You won't be so smart when we're done with you. Holmes needs a lesson.'

Calling me by my first name, calling Sherlock by his last. Wanting to throw me off balance, then.

_Takes more than that._

He punches me hard. I half-expected it, but I still lost ended up crashing against the desk. Out of balance, with a sharp pain on my side and a throbbing at my temple I look back at my enemy. He's smiling like an idiot. I just want to dare him to do that again, but I need to hold off, that's the plan.

'So, who wants Sherlock?' I ask blatantly. Forgot to keep my cards to myself. Maybe I got my head banged up harder than I thought.

'Chandler. Remember him, John?'

Well, it worked. As the man reaches to me and yanks me back to my feet I watch him recoil his arm and tense his muscles. _Not punching me again, sorry._

I stab him on his leg artery with an insulin syringe in one swift movement.

'_Doctor Watson_ to you, idiot.'

He stumbles back, stunned, looking down on his leg. I assure him as I take hold of his gun and point it back at him: 'Insulin. It won't kill you, provided you seek proper medical attention within the hour. It should leave you nauseated, weak, sweaty palms, heart palpitations, the lot. Better not try to fight back.'

I glance over at the man at the door, who has been eyeing us carefully, keeping his distance.

'Chandler, I presume?'

'Just an alias', he assures me calmly. 'We've met once before, do you remember, John?'

'No', I assure him.

_Hurry up, Sherlock._

'Back in the Sand', he adds.

I frown. I know what he means. Afghanistan. A mercenary for hire?

'Which side?'

'Yours. But not for long.'

A despicable double-crosser that went into the other side. A mercenary for hire, exploring the poor people of the land and selling his services, his country for money.

'Then perhaps I should know your name', I add.

He laughs coldly. 'What's a name, John? Are you just waiting for Holmes? You've always been the quiet loyal type. Found yourself a new hero? Does Holmes come next, after Queen and Country?'

'And you? What are _you_ waiting for? You think Sherlock Holmes is going to come in through that door and save us?'

His mouth twisted slightly.

'No, I think _you_ believe that.'

I tilt my head to the side. 'I can shoot you right now. So can you. We're at a standstill. Time only works in my favour, Moran.'

His smile is as wild as it is genuine.

'You do remember me.'

'I've got a knack for remembering scum.'

'Well, keep me in mind, will you? I'm getting Sherlock Holmes for my boss, and then we'll settle our own scores, John.'

Suddenly all electrical lights went out, followed by the blaring sound of emergency sirens. I took out my phone to light as a torch, but even then I knew it was too late. Moran is gone. Like an over-dramatic theatre play, he planned his escape.

_A warning._

Next thing I know my name is being called by a familiar voice. Sherlock is running up the hall, with Lestrade on his tail. Sherlock's light eyes are maniac as he runs his gaze over me again and again. 'Are you hurt, John? Tell me you're not hurt!'

Nonsense. I shake my head. 'I'm fine, Sherlock. He's left.'

Sherlock and Greg share a look. 'Who?' he insists.

'Moran.'

'Who is he?' Greg presses me. Sherlock is drawing blanks as well.

I don't know what to say. Finally I settle upon: 'A ghost from the past. He's after you too, Sherlock.'

'John?' Greg calls me, I ignore him. I keep staring hard at Sherlock as he tries to read in my face all I haven't said. _Probably he can._ 'Sherlock, let's get John a sit, he's dead pale. Maybe he's in shock.'

We both shake our heads. No shock.

'What have you got in your hand, John?' Sherlock asks me in a soothing voice. I look down. I've got the fake guard's gun. For the first time I realise it's not standard issue. Moran must have brought it along and passed it to his accomplice. It's a neat piece of handgun, sharp in lines, heavy in order to stabilise the aim at a longer range. It's a custom made piece, a deadly work of art. I shiver. I've seen it before. I know that gun.

_I could use that sit now, Greg._

Sherlock is the one holding me up, as he tries to disengage my fingers from the metal I'm clutching at as if to save my life.

_I've seen that gun before._

_I've seen it at work._

_I still carry its burden in my left shoulder._

'I got it, John. Let go. Breathe, John. Deep breaths. _Just drop it, John_. Give it to me. I'll take it for you.'

_You can't take it. It's inside me. It's been there for a long time now. It'll never go away._

Greg is calling out something about a man in shock. Not the man I neutralised with an insulin jab, he's being looked after already. Haven't a clue. Wish Greg would just shut up. His noise, and the ghost war noises invading me are just too much for me right now. Sherlock's touch is the only thing keeping me grounded right now.

_I think Sherlock knows._

'We'll get him, John', he promises me. His voice is only partially audible through the haze. I need to trust him on that. I always do. Trust him, I mean.

_**.**_


	22. Chapter 22

_**.**_

DI Lestrade – Greg – is drunk. I can't help but chuckle. Hard. Celebratory pints at the pub. Greg got drunk to celebrate and he _didn't_ even solve the case. Sherlock did. It's always Sherlock. He's a genius too. I guess that's why he solves the cases while Greg doesn't. Always. Well – when I'm there at least. Greg solves cases without Sherlock. I think. I would ask him, but he's drunk.

_So am I._

Sherlock didn't come. Of course he didn't. Other officers came too so Sherlock went on a vanishing act of his own. Shy genius - he's not. Only sometimes. He dislikes having too many people around. And we did invite him. I think we did. Did we, Greg?

'Mate, you haven't stopped drunk-talking about Sherlock, it's getting annoying. Do you even know you're doing it out loud?'

_Greg's funny. He's drunk._

'I'll have another one', I voice out loud, slightly slurred. I sound like my sister Harry speaking. I better not think it through. It's sad.

'John! John, what are you doing?'

'I'll have another pint. Where's the...'

'We're in the middle of the street, John. We left the pub already. Jesus, you're hammered tonight!'

I shake my head vehemently. Harry's the one that drinks. And Greg.

Maybe I said that out loud. He's looking at me funny now. I smile to put him at ease.

'I'm taking you home, John.'

'Home?' I repeat. The word dazzles me, feels foreign, like something I hardly recognise anymore. 'Mary', I finally recall.

'No, I'm taking you to Baker Street, I don't quite think you'd make the cab ride, mate. Sherlock can put up with you. You've been on and on about him all night, he owes me for putting up with you.'

'Sherlock?' Was I? My brain's fuzzy, and I'm slightly sleepy. I smile as I realise we're in Baker Street already. Weren't we at a bar? Where's my pint already?

'Look, Greg, Sherlock lives here!' I lean on him for support and pat his arm to get his attention.

He looks at me as if he pities me. Or the headache I'll have tomorrow. That's sort of sad too.

'Sherlock is a genius, you know?' I tell Greg. He rolls his eyes. Suddenly we're in front of the dark green door of 221 and he's ringing the doorbell. I giggle.

'What?' he presses me, giggling by imitation. Told you he's drunk.

'Maybe he went out for a pint, Greg.'

'What? That's not even funny, John, why are you laughing?'

I shrug. I really don't know.

'You don't know', he repeats, unconvinced. 'You're a happy drunk, John, thankfully. Too bad my phone's battery is done. This one should go on record.'

221's door is yanked open, briskly. As a reaction I tense and take my hand to my belt. Empty. My gun should have been there. Never mind. It's Sherlock. He came to open the door himself. I don't want to shoot Sherlock. Only sometimes. Everyone does sometimes.

'Lestrade? John?'

He looks so lost as he sees a couple of drunks at his door. I chuckle again. Sherlock looks for answers in Greg. Greg just shrugs and directs: 'John is wasted...'

'... _Am not!..._'

'... and he's spending the night on your sofa, Sherlock. Just let him sleep it off and, for the love of god, don't wake him up with loud noises.'

There's a tinge of unease in Sherlock's usually controlled demeanour. Like he doesn't want me there. That sobers me up fast. I feel ashamed. Drunk in Sherlock's home entrance. I need to go.

I turn to leave, but I stumble on my feet and by a mere miracle I don't hit the pavement. Sherlock is holding me up. He's got me.

I smile. He's doing the hero thing again.

_I hope Greg's not filming._

_**.**_

Going up the stairs into 221B was a disaster. I couldn't find my footing. Sherlock was holding me up by having my arm over his neck and half-directing me, half-carrying me along.

Greg was the one giggling all the way up the stairs.

_He's drunk._

Sherlock dumps me in the long sofa as the world starts spinning around. I wish it'd stop already. It's making me nauseated.

No fun anymore.

_I guess I've earned it._

My head pounds, I'm half-drooling on the leather sofa and 221B is too bright from the street lamps' fuzzy glow. I guess I need to sleep. My brain is slow, my mouth feels like I've taken to eat fuzzy mould. All the while, Sherlock is trying is best at telling me off:

'I wish you've learnt your lesson, John. That's a waste of a perfectly fine average brain in useless euphoria seeking behaviour.'

I clear my throat. He shuts up._ Pot - kettle - black._

Then, more reasonable, Sherlock comes back from the kitchen with strong black coffee for me. Instead of leaving me, Sherlock takes an awkward seat at the coffee table, staring at me, piercing me with his metallic gaze. 'What happened, John? I left you perfectly fine.'

'I had a few beers', I try to answer with all the dignity I can muster. The coffee is helping me along, but not as fast as it should.

'Anyone can see _that_. What happened, John?' he presses me again.

'Where's Greg?' I look all around but I can't find him. Maybe I shouldn't look around. Keep looking ahead, John. The room isn't really spinning.

'Went home a while ago. You stayed in the sofa chuckling to yourself.'

Immediately I worry: 'Did I say anything clever?'

'No.'

'Did I say I miss Baker Street?'

'No.'

'Was I drunk-talking about you again?'

'No.'

'Good', I decide. _Haven't been embarrassing myself in front of Sherlock, then._

Sherlock smirks. That's uncalled for. 'I'm leaving', I decide, taking offense. Immediately he holds me back and heaves me to the sofa again.

The room is spinning much faster now.

'You're staying tonight, John.'

'No.' That's the one thing I know for sure in this ever bending physics law's universe.

He rolls his eyes in his customary over-dramatic fashion. '_Just drop it, John_. I'll let Mary know you'll be staying here. You don't need to go, you're home.'

I freeze, confused. There's that word again. _Home._ Such a comfortable word. And this is Baker Street. They could belong together.

_Not anymore._

_I belong nowhere._

'I don't belong in Baker Street anymore, Sherlock', I need to tell him that. It's the simple truth.

He shakes his head, sincere. Maybe because he thinks I'm drunk and I won't remember. 'You'll always be at home here, John.'

_He's sounding like the greeting cards industry now._

Home. Maybe before. Things have changed. Not the same. _Never a home since he left._ 221B is just a museum of old days, now. I don't belong here anymore. I lost that feeling of belonging somewhere, long ago. I'm a travelling one man show putting up a façade every day. _Hollow, empty, alone on the inside._

Not happy anymore.

I blink the tears away that are starting to gather without my permission. I strive to wipe it all off as fast as I can. Out of all people, it's Sherlock who I really don't want to see me acting up like Harry. Emotional and lost, drunk as a skunk.

'John?'

He's still staring at me, with a worried tinge in his green eyes now. Like he's trying to understand what I'm thinking. _This time, he's struggling._

_Keep cool, John._

'I _am_ sorry', he states simply at the end of a long pause.

The coffee has sobered me up enough to know that this is a conversation I refuse to engage in. I fake a smile and further mental confusion. '_Sorry?_ What on Earth for, Sherlock?'

He's not really fooled, or he really doesn't understand social conventions. He answers me to the letter. 'I'm sorry for what I took from you when I left. I had to go, John, I've told you that already. I'd do it again, too. Only... _differently'_, he finally admits. He glances out of the window for a second before returning a very honest gaze upon mine. 'John, I knew you'd make it out okay in the end.'

'Not okay', I mumble. I wouldn't be sure he heard me, I wouldn't know if I wanted him to, yet he nods.

'You were the reason I made it, and was able to come back, John.' Now that doesn't make the least sense. Who's drunk now? Wait a minute, Sherlock hasn't had a drink... In front of me, Sherlock is picking up the old battered chequered blanket and he hands it to me. One of the few things left in 221B that are inherently mine. 'Just rest now, John. You're safe tonight. You're _home_.' That word again. As he's walking away I'd sworn I heard him say under his breath: '_So am I._'

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: Nothing glamorous about being drunk - or the hangover. Please understand that writing for more uncensored states of mind has a purpose in stories, doesn't advocate drinking alcohol for underage people or abusing quantities in general. Please be safe. -csf_


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N - __Still not__: British, a doctor, or even a writer for that matter. Apologies for the possible inconsistencies, therefore. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'_John... I think I need a doctor.'_

I remember Sherlock's words as if it were yesterday, and the meek tone of voice on the call from the man that never gets sick. It's been three days now. I've rushed to Baker Street. What had started like a mild flu Sherlock had ignored into a severe Bronchiolitis. We caught it as it was edging on a Pneumonia. For the first couple of days it was touch and go. Today I'm more convinced we pulled through. Sherlock is comfortably sleeping in his bed, I'm sat close by at the kitchen table, listening for his breathing. He's doing better now. Averse to hospitals like a stubborn child, not for the first time he's called me as his doctor on a last resource – and I'm the only one he'll admit by his side. So I've been both his doctor and full time nurse since Friday.

_I don't mind, I'm glad I can help._

Greg said he'd stop by with some most needed groceries today. Sherlock was way too thin to start with. I need to prepare him some meals before I go back to work tomorrow. Called in sick today. It wasn't a complete lie. Someone was sick today, just not me. Sherlock admits no one else's help, I had no choice.

_He hardly admits me._

Took two days to keep his fever down at a stable level. He needs plenty of fluids, and rest, and meds every six hours, something to entice his brain every two minutes he's awake too.

I should take the rest of the week off from work. And even then I think Sherlock might not rest.

I sink in further in the uncomfortable chair. Sherlock's coughing again. I hope he doesn't cough himself awake again. That was last night's game. Neither of us slept a wink.

I get up, filled with restless energy. I'll prepare him some tea. Let it cool a bit and then take it to him. I might be able to convince him to drink some of it. More likely I'll have to bribe him with something sweet. _Works every time._

Kettle's boiled. Tea's in. Leave it to cool. It's really easy. Don't know why our favourite neighbourhood genius never makes himself a cuppa. Must be one of those life mysteries.

I'll just take a seat on my chair for a couple of minutes. After I check on my patient.

Sherlock's looking better. Like a mischievous child grown tired and peacefully asleep. I'm glad.

Forget my armchair. The kitchen chair will do. I'm setting my phone to ring in five minutes. I don't trust myself not to fall asleep. I only need to close my eyes for a couple of minutes.

_**.**_

I don't know which woke me up first. If it was my phone or Sherlock's insistent repetition of my name. He's bored again. Better go and convince him to keep to bed for a couple hours longer. Take the tea. Bribe him with sugary treats.

_No, Sherlock, you can't have a smoke._

_**.**_

As I'm exiting Sherlock's room I find Greg making his way into 221B. I smile, to greet and thank him. Sherlock's really lucky. I think he knows it, deep inside, even if he'll never admit it.

'How's the patient, John?' Greg asks me, as he insists on taking the groceries into the kitchen. I must crack on with them, I want to leave a bunch of meals ready for Sherlock.

'Sherlock's... bored. Much better too. Luckily we caught it in time. Did you notice he was sick before?'

Greg shrugs. 'He's been coughing for a week. Didn't quite complain, though.'

'Should have come to see him before', I feel guilty. Greg's fast to catch up.

'Not your fault, John. He's a grown-up and...' He hesitates as we share a comical look. _Yeah, but he's Sherlock._ Regular common sense never applies.

'Just don't give him reasons to go for cold damp crime scenes anytime soon Greg, okay? Doctor's orders.' I beg of him.

Sherlock's calling me again, like a contemptuous teenager. With a sigh I move in under Greg's smirk.

_**.**_

Fell asleep in the kitchen chair again. Don't know how that happened. It's now dark outside the window.

Damn. Haven't given Sherlock his medicine and a proper meal. And my shoulder's hurting from the strained position. I slept a couple of hours on it. Far too long.

Who's whispering? Is Sherlock on his phone?

Sounds like Greg, actually. Hasn't he left yet?

'_Sherlock, just take the medicine. If not for you, for John. He's run down as it is.'_

What's that about? Just promise him a chocolate afterwards, Greg. That's how I do it.

'_And my chocolates?'_

One, Sherlock, I said one chocolate. Greg won't fall for it.

'_I'm not going into the kitchen to wake John up for that. Sometimes you can be quite a jerk, Sherlock. He hasn't slept for days!' _Fatherly lecture time. Greg's well-intended, but it's useless.

'_Just three days. He can pull more than that. He's done four days before.' _Yes, I have.

'_There's absolutely no need!'_ My choice, I volunteered. Enough said.

'_I'm sick!' _Sherlock's complaining. Loudly. I smile. I knew it was useless, Greg!

'_Sherlock, just... take a good look at John next time you see him, will you?'_

I frown. Didn't quite get that one.

_**.**_

'John?'

'Yes, Sherlock?' I ask patiently as I bring him a soothing cup of tea.

'You haven't shaved.'

'No', I realise.

'There are bags under your eyes', he continues.

'It's a new look I'm going for', I smile.

'Your left shoulder is tight too. John?'

'Yes, Sherlock?'

'Why haven't you left?'

I frown. 'You were sick. I tried to help.'

'John? That doesn't make sense. You look exhausted, you should have left', he tells me like it's simple maths and nothing more.

_Thanks for that._ 'Guess so', I play along.

'You wouldn't leave', he understands. Then I'm shocked to realise he's trying to get up. I must stop him at once.

'Sherlock?'

'You need to rest, John. Someone needs to take care of you.'

'Who? You, Sherlock?'

'_Me?_ No, John, you'd more likely be poisoned accidently before the end of the day. _Just drop it, John. _I'm no good at playing doctor. That's why I need you. I'll call Greg. He can take care of you. And Mrs Hudson. I'll even call Mycroft, just to annoy him. Taking care of you can be a whole lot of fun for me, John. Why didn't I think of this before?'

I'm laughing now.

Same old Sherlock.

He'll be fine.

_**.**_


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: No, I still don't know where these come from, sometimes. They just come out like this. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

I don't feel _old_. I definitely don't feel this age. The difference between now and when I was younger is that I've been through certain things, and they've changed me – or I changed because of them.

Sherlock sometimes makes me feel old. The man that sulks like a teenager, for hours on end.

He can also make me feel quite young. The chases through the rooftops, the life and death confrontations, the times we save the life of an innocent person.

Sometimes the life of an innocent animal, as well.

We have just successfully proven that the dog wasn't in any way responsible for his owner's death despite vicious bites around the throat – that ended up being fake. Sherlock has been uncustomarily delaying his exit from the crime scene. I find him knelt on the floor, calling for the attention of the frightened puppy.

'Sherlock, there's no more case, we should go.'

My friend keeps his back to me, immobile. Next thing I know the puppy in front of Sherlock stares at me with a heart-breaking hopeless expression. _He has no home_, I realise.

I'll tell off anyone that tells me that Sherlock Holmes is heartless.

'John?' I hear as I'm moving over to meet Greg. He has startled me, and I turn towards him.

'Oh, for the love of—!'

Make that _two_ sad puppy faces turned on me.

With a sigh I take my hand to the bridge of my nose. It's an old gesture for patience. Probably this time I just wanted to block the two pleading expressions out of sight.

I can't begin to explain how wrong this is.

'Sherlock, you're not so good with pets. Remember the goldfish? And the parrot?'

He frowns. 'I returned the parrot to the shop, John. What do you mean?'

I pointedly nod, distracted. How do I explain to Sherlock that he didn't even know how to take care of himself while I was in Baker Street, let alone another living creature?

'I changed, John', he whispers before I can even open my mouth to make a sound. It's sad and almost pathetic that he's so keen and all the while asking me, when I'm just a friend. He doesn't need my approval. The dog can take up the whole of Baker Street and sleep on my old armchair for all I care. So long as it's kept fed and tended to – and the right colour, not like the time Sherlock changed my shampoo – it should be just fine. Mrs Hudson will probably even approve. She always tells me Sherlock is too alone nowadays.

'Fine', I give up. 'I'll talk to Greg Lestrade to see if you can keep the dog, Sherlock.'

'John.'

'Hm?'

'No, _John_. His name is John.'

I blink; couldn't Sherlock have found a better name?

Again my friend answers the question I wouldn't voice: 'His fur and your hair are both sandy colour, you both have big eyes, and you're both admiringly loyal. If the name suits you, why wouldn't it suit him?'

I keep on blinking. Did he just acknowledge—?

I turn away. A praise from Sherlock is a rare thing. I'm not even sure it was a praise. I hope so. Better not inquire. _He's never admit it easily._

'John!'

You need to teach the puppy its name first, Sherlock. He probably already responds to a different name. _You're in for a world of trouble, Sherlock._ I doubt John is even house trained.

Damn, now I'm calling it John as well!

The hour is late, but I better swing by Baker Street first thing in the morning. Make sure both Sherlock and John still have a home.

Nowhere else to return John to. John's got no home, and he's just been through hell for a puppy.

_It all sounds vaguely familiar._ Better not think it through.

_**.**_

It's a briskly cold morning, and my fingers are too cold despite the hot paper cup of coffee – black, no sugar – I carry along with me to Baker Street. Just went from the crime scene to a night shift, and before I go to rest I knew I had to keep an eye on the two younglings in 221B.

I don't think Sherlock will ever grow older. A part of me doesn't want it to happen either.

My phone's ringing. Trouble.

'Sherlock?'

'_John, you're a doctor!'_

'Who's sick?'

'_The puppy!'_

'You need to call a vet, Sherlock.' Damn, it's started, I shouldn't have left the two of them alone. Sherlock's tone of voice is heartbreaking, and they've spent just one night together.

'_No, you need to fix John!'_

'Look, I don't know what I can do. I'm already on my way. Can you tell me what happened? How is he?'

'_He's sick!'_

Brilliant. 'And—' He won't let me finish.

'_He didn't drink any of my acids on the bench or the one in the kettle, or eat any of my crystallised compounds in the evaporating dishes, he didn't lick the liver samples because I stored them in the fridge, he didn't get a shock from an outlet because I covered them all with baby protections, and he didn't get to my secret stash because I don't have one right now – a fact I'm deeply regretting right now!'_

Well, he thought it through.

'I'm coming, Sherlock', I promise him.

_**.**_

Baker Street's living room is dominated by chaos, the sort a very lively and indulged puppy can create. But the said puppy is lying on the floor over the chequered blanket, panting for breath.

A friend of mine who happens to be a vet has just left. He thinks the dog was poisoned by a slow acting substance quite a few hours ago. He took samples with him. I could have told him not to bother. The things Sherlock keeps are often untraceable.

Oh, Sherlock, you must have forgotten something. Sad that had to happen when you tried so hard (and loved too).

I'm knelt on the floor, patting John's light fur, hoping to bring him comfort. So he knows he's not alone, at least. The veterinarian is confident of his recovery. But he's bound to be homeless again soon.

Or maybe not. Greg was keen to keep him as well. With Greg he's less likely to get accidentally poisoned.

As for Sherlock, he took off when the vet arrived. He won't answer his calls. Hopefully he's read the text about John going to be okay. And hopefully the text has arrived before Sherlock has gone and done something stupid. When he took off he was quite sure John would die on 221B's floor. Must have broken his heart.

_**.**_

'There you go, John! Good boy!'

The joyous exclamation permeates my sleeping brain. Exhausted by the long night's work I fell asleep on 221B's floor, by the puppy's side. I stir slowly to the sound of laughter.

'Good boy!'

It's Sherlock and the puppy. Acting like nothing even happened. I smile indulgently, vaguely noticing that someone has placed a clean blanket over my shoulders while I was asleep.

The cars outside the window are loud as if in rush hour; did I really sleep that long on 221B's carpet?

'Catch, John, fetch!'

'You're both okay' I admit, slightly unfiltered, my voice is pasty from sleep.

'Good as new, John!' And to the puppy he added, in a sweet tone: 'Good boy, John, good boy! Go on, fetch!' He throws what I recognise to be a pair of folded silk socks and the puppy, although frailer by the night's illness, is contended to chase it. Reaching the bundle of socks, the puppy sniffs them, wagging his tail, before returning to the fireplace and the Persian slipper that usually resides there. Sherlock's demeanour changes. 'No, John, no! _Just drop it, John!_ Don't be a bad boy!' The puppy just looks back innocent and curious, I'm laughing over the scene. As the puppy reaches down again, Sherlock flings himself across the living room for the slipper. 'Drop my cigarettes, you scoundrel!' I'm still laughing. There you go, Sherlock. Time to house train John. 'Are you crazy, John? Those are not good for you, a puppy can't have nicotine and tar! Not even if it's low tar!'

I'm still giggling. Sherlock deserves to know what is like to care for some creature with absolutely no survival skills or good sense.

'Wait, John, that's it!'

It takes me a couple of seconds before I realise Sherlock is addressing me and not the dog, while they are both fighting on the floor over the slipper. Actually, Sherlock looks like he's just made a ground breaking discovery. 'John, the dog wasn't poisoned by me!'

'It's okay, Sherlock. Things happen despite our best intentions.'

'What? No, I mean it! He licked his dead owner to try to revive him, that's how he got the poison in his system! I need to tell Greg, this is the missing clue to convict the housekeeper!'

Excited, he takes out his phone and goes into a texting rampage, leaving the two Johns staring in admiring awe.

_**.**_

* * *

_2nd A/N: I've been warned this may have been a bit confusing, as I was going for exactly that, exploring the mirrored characteristics in John the doctor and John the puppy. Not actually meaning to give anyone a headache. What can I say? It's okay if you skipped this one. I'm not erasing, well, because I never do, out of principle. -csf_


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: Flashbacks Overuse alert on this one. Again, apologies for the headaches it might generate. -csf_

* * *

**_._**

'How did it all happen, Captain Watson?' the man in charge of the dark interrogation room asked me, straight face, challenging stare. Intimidating to some, perhaps. _Not to me._

'"John", please.'

'How did it happen, John?' he insisted. From a corner of the claustrophobic room Greg Lestrade stepped forward into the light pool. He looks as if disturbed by something. Holding himself back. _He can't help me._

'We should give John a break', Greg still pleads in my favour. 'He waved off a medical examination at the scene, Superintendent Chandler. And a good look at him can tell us his holding back pain.'

Racy move; Greg is trying to put a defence on the record for me. _Forget it, _I raise my chin. I'll show vulnerability to no one.

'I'm fine, I can tell. I'm a doctor, Greg.'

'John, just take five minutes to—'

'No need', I assure them before Greg can worry any longer. 'So, what's up? Asking me how Sherlock and I got out of a burning building with one dead person inside and another outside?' I resume for them. 'Right. Have a seat. This might take a while.'

**_._**

Smoke is blinding me, suffocating, bitter. I'm powerless as it swirls around me. The temperature too, it's very high. I shouldn't be here. I couldn't turn away either.

The crackling and burning stuns me; it's so loud. Makes every fast evaporating bead of sweat, every useless breath of air, the more terrifying. Strangely it's mesmerising at the same time. I'd stand back and watch. Just curl up and watch it consume the old building around me. Must be the carbon monoxide, numbing me. It would have succeeded too, but this is about Sherlock. I need to help him. I need to focus on my mission. Most important mission in my life, right now.

In my friend's life too.

As I open the door at the end of the corridor, fire is creeping up the walls and into the ceiling already. The rush intake of air just smartens the orange and yellow flames, puffing them, doubling their volume in the threatening swirling flows.

A louder noise behind me, and I look over my shoulder. No turning back now. No help either. The long corridor I just came through is already completely overtaken by flames, only way now is forward. _Never planned it otherwise._

Finally I recognise a dark figure curled up in a corner, immobile. Despite the high temperatures, my heart freezes at the sight. It's Sherlock. _He's down._

**_._**

[Transcription notes – 22.10.14 – JHW – 21 47 hours.]

"I thought you and Holmes worked together, or something."

"Sometimes he lets me in on his cases."

"And this time?"

"This time he took too long to call me. Sherlock sent me a text with his location and as a request for help. Like he sent the Yard, Greg Lestrade told me when I immediately called him."

"And you were sure the text had been sent by Holmes? What did it read?"

"You've got my phone. It was apprehended with my gun before I was brought here and had my wrists cuffed. I can't hand you my phone, as you may be able to tell.'

"It says "Vatican cameos", followed by the address and initials."

"It's an old code."

"So you had no doubt that Mr Holmes was in danger at this location, Captain Watson."

"I didn't."

"And what did you do?"

"I went there to join him."

"When you arrived the building was already on fire. You knew help was on the way."

"Yes, I did."

"Captain Watson, you entered the burning building. Why?"

"That's easy. To get Sherlock out."

**_._**

How am I going to get Sherlock out now, without his cooperation? Six feet tall of him in a heap of unresponsive limbs and long wool coat.

I mustn't take his coat off. It'll protect him. Dehydration can be dealt with later.

I've rushed over to Sherlock. It's with relief that I assess a steady breathing, even if shallow because of all the smoke around. Less for him since he's been down on the ground, likely for a while. Passing out may have just saved his life.

Not safe yet. It's up to me now.

His life in my hands.

I got him. I'll make him safe.

I take only a second longer to wipe his sweaty brow with my sleeve. It's not a medical gesture, but I can't help it. There's a minute twitch in response. It's not medically relevant, but it makes me feel better. Even if it's a selfish thought to want to feel that I'm not alone in a burning building. _That's humanity for you._

Metal splints in a cabinet behind me as the echo of a riffle gunshot overlaps the burning sounds. They're still out there, aiming at us, wanting to make sure we don't come out alive.

I've got my gun in my belt, I take it off and blindly shoot across the cracked window. That should hold them off for a minute while I get Sherlock out of harm's way.

With my gun on my right hand – I'm a right-handed shooter – I have no choice but to pull Sherlock's limp form over my left shoulder and try my best to hold him there. Legs dangling in front of me, arms splayed behind me, as I'll try – must make it – to get out of our burning hell.

I shoot a couple more times, not really bothering with aim, as I move across the room to the second door.

Sherlock is deceptively heavy for a skinny guy.

'Hang in there, Sherlock. Almost out of here, you are going to be fine, I promise.'

I know he's not really listening. It's that selfish need for company again. Don't want to face it, but I'm scared.

Who wouldn't be?

The smoke must be getting to me, I'm dizzy.

I need to hurry.

Here's the door. I know the draft created by opening a door on a fire can smarten it. I need to be careful. I need to make sure Sherlock is protected, his coat and I acting like a physical barrier. I cannot let harm come to him when he's so defenseless.

With my hand inside my sleeve, I push the door open to the hall, we're almost outside.

The blaze blinds me as I bend myself in a coughing fit I couldn't repress, no matter how much I've tried. Must get out as fast as I can. Sherlock's too dehydrated. It takes every last fibre of my being to get up again. One last time.

There's a sudden move I manage to pick up through the smoked glass of the nearest window. In reflex I raise my gun and fire. This time I think I got the shooter. Just before he gunned us down.

One last door and we're safe, outside. The cold night air startles me as the first respondent's sirens are getting closer.

**_._**

[Transcription notes – 22.10.14 – JHW – 22 10 hours.]

"We have footage of you coming out of the burning building with the apprehended weapon, Captain Watson."

"Of course I did. It's my gun."

"It's an illegal gun."

"Still mine."

"Are you admitting to owning the gun?"

"Yes. Anyway, who filmed me? Was it you, Greg? Why?"

_"You were looking... heroic, mate. I'm sorry, didn't mean to get you in trouble."_

"Any news on Sherlock yet?"

_"John. You need to worry about yourself now."_

"Then I have nothing more to say."

**_._**

'Mr Holmes, what is the meaning of this intrusion?' Chandler yelled immediately upon Sherlock's arrival. I'm glad to see him all lit up again.

'Sherlock, you can't just—! You need to rest!' Greg just lectures our crazy friend.

Sherlock glances at him, then at me in the interrogation chair. His gaze lingers on my handcuffs, a disgusted look crawling on his face. Finally he turns to the film projector, with Greg's amateur masterpiece on a loop. He freezes at that for a few seconds, before turning back to Greg with a look full of anger and exasperation alike.

'Are you daft?'

Greg freezes reflexively. There's unfiltered anger in Sherlock, more than our usually distant and cold detective has accustomed us to. Something in that film has triggered it.

'Look here, Sherlock! Superintendent Chandler is my superior and—' Greg starts for the sake of reasonability.

'Can't you _see_ it?' and he points at the screen across the tiny room. 'There! You've been looking at it for long enough!'

'What am I missing, Sherlock?' Greg actually assumes, still patiently. He's looking older and more tired than I've ever seen him.

'He carried me out.'

'John?'

'Yes, John!'

It's like those two are having a conversation of their own. Not very efficient, I could add.

'I know, I saw it. We all saw it, Sherlock.'

'_Over his left shoulder, Greg!_ His shattered shoulder, Greg! I can't tell you how he's still standing, let alone getting interrogated for doing the rescuers' work!'

'I'm fine', I interrupt them immediately.

'He refused medical care', Chandler defends, covering his steps.

'Yes I did', I calmly admit for the record. I don't want to get Greg in trouble.

Sherlock is ignoring them, jingling the keys to my handcuffs to set me free. Greg just pats his empty pockets in confusion.

'Sherlock', I try to direct him, 'you really need to rest. I can handle this.'

'_Just drop it, John_, there's no need to play tough anymore.' I'm startled at first, but only Sherlock could have seen right through me so fast. As he leans me towards him to open the handcuffs behind my back, I'm suddenly realising how drained and empty I feel. I finally allow the last hours' emotions rush past me. I shiver, unfiltered, exhausted. Did I really get inside a burning building? It's all too much all of a sudden. I did the only thing I saw fit. Now I can hardly concentrate on Sherlock's brilliant fast-delivered monologue to our audience: 'The body inside the house is two weeks old and was used to lure me in. The pathology report will confirm it. Someone locked me in there. I texted John and Lestrade for help. That's when the fire broke out. It had clearly been prearranged as it spread too fast. The second body, outside, was John's doing in self-defence. John's a trained army soldier. He never owned an illegal gun. Any ownership he may have claimed can't be taken to account because he was in no condition to be interrogated. You've cuffed and held prisoner a war veteran after a major trauma and with no medical clearance. That places the entire Armed Forces at your office first thing tomorrow, asking for explanations. Plus the Secret Services - trust me, I will call _him_. Unless you let John go right now. Better take us to Baker Street while you're at it.'

Superintendent Chandler tries to stop us. I see Greg holding him back. Greg's position between us allows only me, and perhaps Sherlock, to see a relieved contented smile. All the while, Sherlock's pulling me out and we leave behind the claustrophobic interrogation room with a loop of the maddening hell he just escaped. Sherlock is helping me along, half-carrying me by his side. Taking me from my hell.

Symmetry.

**_._**


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Never been there, and I made it up. Just read something in the internet and the beginning of one of these popped up. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'What are we doing, Sherlock?' I protest cautiously. 'This is a church!'

'Today you are in great form, John!' he mocks my obvious observation. 'What else?'

'What do you mean "what else"?'

'Why do you think we came by St. Mary's church by the river?'

'I don't—'

I stop short as I look over my shoulder. We may be already inside the church, but I quite remember that there was no river outside. He reads my puzzled expression in no time.

'Exactly, John. We are going to the river.'

'There is no river.'

'I wouldn't be so sure of that. You are a trained military man, even if a doctor. You should be able to read the natural landscape on a map.'

I take the map of the Marylebone area that Sherlock is handing me with a frown. There's Marylebone Lane, and what appear to be areas _above it_. Higher ground.

'An underground river!' I realise. Never thought of that.

'Good work, John. Even if it took you _ages'_, he can't help himself. It gets stuck on my mind this idea that he assumed I'd get to the answer faster. At least faster than most people around. He has these high hopes for me. Thinks I'm clever enough to be around him, even if I'm not genius material. Either way Sherlock, impatiently or not, baited me to the answer. That's highly considerate for a man whose brain works at the speed of light, sometimes faster or harder than he'd really want it to, and he can't help it.

'I still don't know what we are doing here, Sherlock.'

He nods, slightly absent-minded from our conversation now. I already know he's not answering me anytime soon. _He'll milk it all the way._

The church is closed to the public. In one of the laterals he's found what he was looking for. With a wink he starts pushing on the backdrop of a side reliquary or biblical scenery. Immediately I go to help him. As we push the old wood panel aside we reveal a dark cobweb decorated entrance. It deepens down in uneven steps into the unknown.

_Nice._

I wonder how Sherlock got hold of this secret.

'And _why_ are we doing this, Sherlock?' That's a different question, one I expect answered.

'To save a life', he declares simply. 'Will you come?'

'Of course.' _How could I not?_

We make our way inside the dark stone tunnel with the aid of the torches from our phones. It's a dark uneven descending passage of unfinished rough textures of stone and soil. It's slightly claustrophobic too, and smells heavily of mold.

The doctor in me keeps arguing that this cannot be healthy at all. The adrenaline build up in me keeps that voice quiet.

'How is this going to save a life, Sherlock?'

'Patience, John. We've only just started.'

I decide to trust him. I always do.

The space widens significantly all of a sudden, leading us straight onto the underground river. It runs in a bed of stone, under arched vault-like ceilings supported by thick solid pillars. Sherlock steps forward, I can hear his footsteps on the viscous sticky surface of the narrow pathway along the river. The smell is foul and it's starting to get to me in the dark earthy dampness.

Suddenly light erupts from an old-fashioned torch of wood and metal fastened on the wall. Sherlock's doing. He smirks at me as he's suddenly filled with bright light.

I take a better look at the sludgy water, lazily trickling along the canal. It's revoltingly brown as its smell. This isn't a river anymore. It's an underground sewage system. An unhealthy cesspool of human and animal waste, a biological and chemical hazard in diluted proportions.

Sherlock's sulphur experiments in 221B don't smell so foul in comparison.

'_This_ will save a man's life, Sherlock?' I pressed my friend for answers. '_How, _exactly?'

Sherlock glances at me. He's finally convinced he can't hold the secret much longer.

'This underground river was the murderer's exit route in the Chandler's case, John!'

I frown heavily. 'Isn't that a cold case from the 1980's?'

'1982, yes. There's always time for justice, John.'

_Yeah. He's learnt that from me._ Conveniently manipulating me now.

'Fine...' I give in, as he knew I would.

The path is narrow and low, barely a foot above the running water's level. Even the roofing height above us is low. Not a problem for me. I can go on with no trouble. Sherlock, on the other hand, needs to bend himself slightly, and it seems to be a long way to go like that.

_Always knew my height would come handy one day. If only _one _time._

'What will we do here, Sherlock? Take samples? Collect evidence? Measure the place?'

'You'll dive.'

_What? _No.

_Yet, a man's life is at stake._ That leaves me no choice.

_Damn it!_

'Fine', I mumble. _You can't make me like it._

'Just kidding, John! You are a doctor, John! No one should enter _that_!' he points at the revolting waters, light-hearted.

I end up giggling with him, even if I wanted to be angry. I can never be angry with Sherlock for long.

I've been loyally following Sherlock for the last ten minutes. He finally comes to a halt when he finds a small greyish wood chest on the stone path. There's a heavy bolted lock of oxidised metal. All in all, it looks like some sort of miniature pirate's chest.

'What's in there, Sherlock?'

'One man's proof of guilt, and another's innocence', he answers me with ease, as he lifts the box off the floor.

That's it. That's what we came here to do.

Time to go back.

'Hm, Sherlock?'

'John?'

'Is it me, or is the water rising?'

It really is, visibly rising. I glance at Sherlock. He's going pale. I follow his gaze. There are water marks on the wall, way above my head – even Sherlock's.

'Hurry, John!' Sherlock concludes. He means we need to turn back. To save ourselves from the water. To save our lives.

And prove a man's long denied innocence.

'I said "hurry", John!'

'I am!' I glance over my shoulder to the hastened detective, the water is quickly reaching ankle high.

'I estimate another three minutes before the river fully submerges you, and three minutes ten seconds before it does the same to me.'

_Nice to know._ You are forgetting to mention that this river should put us in medical quarantine for a fortnight at least.

Before I say anything my foot slips on the greasy pavement, I lose my balance, and fall flat on the wet floor. Immediately I try to get up. A sharp hot pain in my ankle prevents me from achieving my goal.

'John?'

Come on, Sherlock. You're a genius. You saw it happen. What do you want me to say now?

'Get going, Sherlock. I'll meet you outside.'

'Okay.'

_Oh._

_Okay_, he says. Well, that settles it. Sherlock is already crossing his legs over the ankle I'm holding onto, in order to move along. I sigh and lower my head.

I guess I can always swim. And quarantine for a fortnight.

'John?'

Finally I realise that Sherlock has just put down on the floor the wood evidence box and he's extending an open hand to me. I look at him in confusion.

'I can't walk, Sherlock.'

'Then let's just get out of here', he tells me, insisting with his hand reaching out.

I decide to trust him yet again. I reach for his hand and allow him to yank me up to my feet. I try, but I really can't put any weight on my right foot. I suspect more than a sprain. It may be broken.

'What now, Sherlock?' The water is still rising at a fast pace.

'We leave through here', he points out a small recess on the stone wall. To my surprise, there's a small passage there.

'Sherlock, how did you know—?' I start. _Never mind._ He just smirks, never planning to answer me.

_I bet he just found it, anyway._

Supporting myself on Sherlock's shoulder and hopping on my every other step, we climb a new set of narrow stairs. Throughout our slow progress Sherlock is incredibly patient and supportive. _I'm really lucky._

We finally reach a bend into a new tunnel, loud, dusty and dark. 'Where...?'

'The London Underground, John. Keep close. The passing trains can create sudden distortions in the air flows in their wake.'

'This is dangerous', I admit.

'Yes', he smiles like me. It's a way out and we'll take it.

'Sherlock, the box! You left it behind, we need to go back!' I finally notice what has been in plain sight for so long. A man's innocence is at stake. I try to turn around – maybe the river hasn't filled the tunnel all that much yet. I need to make the wrongs right. He forcefully stops me.

'_Just drop it, John._ I didn't abandon the case. Don't get me wrong, I would have. Especially since it's a cold case. Only there was no need. I opened the box and saved the contents in my coat pocket.'

I smile, relieved. Sherlock Holmes keeps surprising me, every step of the way.

Next thing it'll be us, surprising the passengers waiting at Marylebone Underground Station.

_Can't wait._

_**.**_


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: Lots of theories out there, all valid. This one is mine. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

As far as I know, Sherlock never knew about my nightmares since my time in Afghanistan. I took precautions.

That one time we went to Dartmoor and we ended up lodged close by, I was glad I had thought of bringing my sleeping pills with me. Offered them to Henry Knight too. I knew they would work on the terrified man, giving him some long eluded peace. Knew it from experience.

As for Baker Street, my time there had me sleeping in the room upstairs. First time _it_ happened I was so sure Sherlock had heard it. But he gave no sign, when in the middle of the night I went to get myself a cup of tea, feeling defeated and uncommunicative. He remained immobile in his armchair, hands pressed together to his chin, all the time I was getting my tea sorted in the kitchen. I vaguely remember that my mug slid off my fingers at one point, landing with a loud crash on the worktop. I thought Sherlock would be up and all over me with his deductions at that point, like the pink lady at the crime scene. Like I said, he didn't even stir. Later I'd find out he does that a lot. It's a part of his process. That's how he solves his puzzles. Not paying attention to me, therefore.

After Dartmoor and the Hound, it escalated quite a bit for a while. Thought he'd definitely hear me then, even if I always carefully closed the bedroom door. Sometimes I even stuffed a couple of old jumpers on the floor by the crack of the door, trying to muffle the sounds I couldn't contain inside myself in my sleeping state.

Some nights I even thought Mrs H would have heard it. No reaction from either of them was a relief to me in the morning. Feeling exhausted, drained, and embarrassed as it were. I'd be mortified to hear them allude to it. Don't get me wrong. From Mrs Hudson at least, I expected sympathy. I just didn't want to take it. Don't want anyone's sympathy for being messed up.

I know it's a part of what happened, before I met Sherlock. I know it's normal. Had enough psychological aid to let me know that much. And I'd never judge anyone any less for the PTSD symptoms or the nightmares. But I refuse to accept them on me. I'm not a victim, not me, never was. I may have taken the meds, may have done the sessions, but I always refused to be in that position.

It terrifies me that I could be this frail.

Still am. Still happens to me. _It's a part of me now._ I've accepted it.

As I'm going to spend a night at Baker Street I worry it'll return tonight. I wish there was a more effective way I could prevent this.

I know there isn't.

_At least he won't hear me. Never has, in the past._

_**.**_

Violent images are crashing and echoing in my spirit as I wake up with a choke from a nightmare. They feel so close, so real.

I'm trembling all over, sat upright in my bed, it's so cold I must be freezing, my fingertips are iced as they cover my eyes. I keep on rubbing, trying to wipe away the images, the sounds, the smells...

It's not going away. _It never really does._

I'm being called, more casualties are coming in, hurried footsteps over the sand. I can feel the sand tricking through my fingers, I can taste it in my mouth. I'm tasting blood as well. I'm biting my lip in an effort to keep quiet. I'm in Baker Street, in my old bedroom, for heaven's sake! I was sent home, defeated, useless, broken. This is where I belong now. The desert is just an echo from the past.

I must not make a sound. Sherlock is downstairs, he might hear me. _He must have heard me already._

I whimper as a stab of pain erupts from my shoulder. Another echo, my body retains its pain memory intact. I must go through it over and over again.

'John?'

I can hear Sherlock, though I haven't a clue if it's the real Sherlock or the one that jumped off St. Bart's rooftop.

I shake my head, trying to make it all go away. I'm already shaking from head to toe in the cold night, against my damp clothes.

'John, please.'

I crumble upon myself further. I can feel the warm liquid flowing through my fingers, the nauseating smell of pain and hurt. I need to get up and do my work. I need to go and sort them out, the other soldiers, my friends.

_I couldn't sort Sherlock out on the pavement._

'John, look at me.'

I can see you, Sherlock, I can see what I couldn't prevent. It never goes away. The most important mission in my life and I failed you.

Warmth envelops my hands, startling me.

'Look at me, John. It's Sherlock. Remember me?'

I feel haunted, and lost, and hurt all over again. I will not open my eyes. I will not chase away this dream-like apparition of my dead best friend.

_I miss him._

He must be angry with me. I know I am. I failed him when he needed me the most.

'Breathe in, breathe out, John. Please. You're spiralling into a panic attack. There's not enough oxygen flow because you're not breathing right... Damn it, John! Listen to me!'

It's so hot in here. Hot like the battlefield. _I can't breathe._ It's only fair. I deserve this. If I let it take me back, if I go back, maybe I can fix things this time.

'John, don't let go, stay with me. We're going to bear through this... What should I do, John? I don't know and you won't answer me. I need you here with me, John.'

I shake my head, I wish this fake Sherlock would just go away. It's my mind playing tricks on me.

'John, I'm going to squeeze your hands in mine. I will prove you that I'm real. Can you feel me?'

Soft pressure around my cold dead-like fingers, and I'm startled. It's true, then. _Sherlock._

Even if it's not true, I want to give in to the insanity. I blink my eyes through the dampness. There's an attentive greyish-green gaze upon me.

'I'm sorry', I mutter at once. I really am. He should never have seen me like this, seen what a mess I am, see the pain I can't control.

There's a brow twitch and I can see worry in my best friend's eyes.

'Don't be sorry, John. It's okay now. You're safe now.'

'You were dead.'

'I know.'

'You and all the others, Sherlock.'

'Let it go, John.'

'I can't. I can still remember it all and—'

'_Just drop it, John_. It's all over', he interrupts me, a bit more forcefully now.

I shake my head stubbornly.

'It will come back. It always does.'

He presses his lips thin.

'Maybe I can play the violin, John.'

I nod, slowly. The soothing melody is welcomed. A different type of echo from the past, one that brings me comfort and grounds me. Only then I realise Sherlock hasn't abandoned my cold hands in his own yet. The man who despises physical contact has become my lifeline voluntarily.

I giggle softly. How will he play his violin like this? He smiles too, as if he's just read my thoughts.

Knowing Sherlock, I think he has._ All of them._

Most people would have known there was nothing they could do to fix me.

Baker Street's certified genius refuses to see what is plainly in front of him. He sees what I see, through my eyes. He won't let me go through it alone.

_**.**_


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: Still not any closer to being a doctor, British, or a writer__. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Sherlock just had a follow-up exam to his cardiac function. After what happened with him being shot a while ago. He's resting in a comfortable hospital room. He looks peaceful as he sleeps, innocence tainting his expression; making him appear younger, frailer.

Knowing Sherlock, he'll be bored out of his wits when he wakes up. I won't wake him up until the next exam. He needs the rest. We keep chasing criminals all day long. Sometimes well into the earlier hours of the next day.

I run my fingers through the paper copy of the scan inside the patient's chart, I knew where to find it. I did this familiar gesture so many times before, with different people, as a doctor myself. I don't recall it ever being this personal. _Every single person mattered._ But it never _hurt_ this way.

_**.**_

'Are you even a certified nurse?' I demand to know, tensely.

'Doctor Watson, Nurse Chandler is a perfectly capable junior nurse, in training right now. She is handling this job under my supervision. The patient has approved this and...'

'Do you even know who the patient is? This is Sherlock Holmes and he is...'

The thin tired man on the gurney smiles tightly my way. Our gazes hardly cross. I know he intends me to shut up, nevertheless. Being vulnerable at a hospital was never in his plans. Yet, here he is. And so am I, I won't leave him alone.

_It's been like that all day._ Sherlock is in the hospital and I, a trained army doctor, am jittery and overwhelmed.

_It's not the first time._ Last time it was a bullet aimed at the heart area. This time is a follow up battery of exams to determine his current condition.

_Things will never be the same again. The heart always recovers, even if there'll be some lasting damage. There always is._

'Doctor Watson, may I remind you that you are here as a companion to the patient, not his doctor? We would prefer if you didn't try to interfere with the procedure. It's a simple blood sample collection.'

'She's got his arm at the wrong angle, it'll bruise him more. There, don't you see it? Is is incorrect of me to let you know? Isn't what I'm doing good for the training?'

I'm being impertinent and downright testy now; but I don't care. Sherlock, the man who's usually larger than the room, is too subdued at this point. Someone needs to defend him, and it'll be me.

'_Mr_ Watson, if you don't calm down, we'll need to remove you from the room. You're upsetting the patient and detrimental to the procedure.'

'Oh, please!' I fire away in sarcasm. '_Nurse_ Chandler can't draw blood efficiently and I'm the one who—'

_**.**_

I've been pacing up and down the outside of the hospital. Couldn't make me more noticeable if I wanted to. Somewhere inside Sherlock is all alone because the nurses wouldn't hear me out. I was right. They could provide better care to their patients. It's not like they don't have enough patients to learn these things!... Well, I guess they've got plenty of patients. And some take priority over Sherlock. That means there'll be teaching and learning – or plain experimenting – on my friend.

_The tests show that Sherlock is okay, I need to focus on that._

Well, I overreacted, I guess. That's why they threw me out. I was being disruptive.

Good thing they didn't put a note on the NHS system about me. It would hinder my career as a doctor. I guess Sherlock foresaw that at once. That's why he kept quiet. He allowed them to escort me out for my own sake. And so he could finally rest.

_I think in the end I actually screamed at them. _I'm ashamed and a little bit proud of that.

I should go home now.

_Only I can't._ Not while Sherlock is here. Alone in a hospital room, because I couldn't keep quiet.

It's the past revisited, and I'm tensed over the last time he was here, just after that bullet hit him. I thought I was over it – for heaven's sake, it's not about _me_, it's about him! – but I guess I still can't move from it.

It scares me that Sherlock Holmes, the great detective from Baker Street, the one that always looks so invincible, can be as frail as the rest of us.

_I should be inside, how could I ever go home now?_

_**.**_

I wake up with a startle and a sore neck. Immediately I realise I'm standing outdoors, in the brisk cold, half-curled up to preserve myself from frost bites in a late November night. That I'm standing in the rooftop of the hospital Sherlock is currently staying at is little surprise, as I gather the scattered memories of the evening. _My stubbornness got me kicked out of my friend's room._ What startles me instead is the warmth emanating from a heavy woollen piece of garment placed over me. It feels and looks a lot like Sherlock's coat. _It's really warm._ But I'd never take his coat, packed neatly in his patient cupboard. I'm quite sure I didn't have it on when I fell asleep.

It felt like ages, but it all mustn't have taken more than a couple of seconds for me to grasp that I'm not alone here.

'Sherlock! What are you doing out of your room?'

Seating by my side in the cold damp material of the roofing is a very snuggled up in a nicked blanket Sherlock.

'I came here to let you know you could go in now. That hateful head nurse is gone. Although she's likely to have left a note about you.'

'But... How did you know how to find me?'

He frowns down on me, as if the answer was obvious. As if I am obvious as well.

'You're a soldier, John', he ends up saying. 'You wouldn't abandon your post.'

'It's not a post', I state, grumpy.

'I know', he lets on, in a deep voice. It feels like he's scrutinising me now. As if I was the first person to ever stand by his side in his trouble. Maybe not the first. I've gathered Greg has done that before, but somehow Sherlock never really grew accustomed to this care and attention. It's sort of sad that Sherlock is so used to be alone. He assumes it natural.

'I won't be pushed away that easily, Sherlock. You should know that by now.' I could be angry with my mad friend now. That he'd think I'd leave. _Only_ _he didn't think that._ He came over to me. Used his big brains to find me. Brought both his coat and a blanket to comfort us outside the grounds I've foolishly got myself thrown out of. 'Come on, Sherlock, let's get you back into your heated comfy room', I state the common sense plan as I push myself up.

'Will you be coming in as well?'

_He's still not entirely sure why I stayed, I realise._

'Let them try and throw me out!' I smirk.

'That was fun to watch', Sherlock confesses easily.

'Hope so. It was my job to cheer up the patient, wasn't it?'

'_John_', he stops me in my tracks. He seems torn, unsure of what to say. I try to give him a way out.

'Oh, yeah, I've still got your coat, Sherlock. You should have kept it yourself. You've been doing exams all day, you must be tired and achy. I can talk to your new nurse and get you some—'

'_Just drop it, John._ Quit trying to be both the doctor and the friend, all at once. You're getting all rallied up for nothing. I'm fine. I've got exams to prove it. I've even got a blanket, see?' He shows me his too bright orange blanket.

I giggle as we make our way back inside through the fire escape.

_I'm glad Sherlock is going to be okay. _I think I can finally relax now.

It's been a long day.

_**.**_


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: Lots of better ones out there, but I still ended up giving it a go. (This is my warning.) It just grew on me.  
__Alert #1 – If anything, this is Sci-fi, because there's science bending here as a premise to the story.  
__Alert #2 – I did say "varying lengths" in the general description, but this was way too long, so I had to divide it. –csf_

* * *

_**. (Part One) .**_

_It's Baskerville all over again._

Why did I drink the coffee in the mug?

_My_ mug, Sherlock! You promised you wouldn't experiment on my RAMC mug.

I wonder what was the compound this time. It knocked the wind out of me. I can hardly breathe. _I'll push through._

I've called Sherlock twice now. He didn't hear me. I try to gasp out his name again, but whenever I do, less air remains.

Not funny, Sherlock. You promised me _no lasting damage._

You did know I was going to drink the coffee, didn't you?_ It had no sugar._ I don't take sugar. Hence it was for me.

Not really sure it was actual coffee, come to think about it.

My back against the hard cabinet door; the world is spinning fast. Oh, Sherlock, what have you done this time? My breathing pattern should worry me. It's shallow and there's not enough oxygen input. I'm feeling sleepy as it is.

'_John!'_

The mad scientist is back, rushing towards the kitchen, towards me.

'John, tell me you didn't drink all of it!'

_Too late for white lies, Sherlock._

He's roughly grabbing me by my shoulders, calling my name with urgency. It's nice to see him so worried about— Something, I can't remember what is going on.

'... Sher? ...'

'That's it, John, take deep breaths.'

_Can't._ The whole world is fuzzy around the edges. Maybe if I get some sleep...

Sherlock is insisting that I get on my feet. I can try, for him.

That's it, enough tries. My knees keep buckling like butter.

'John, don't you dare!'

_I'm not daring, I'm sleeping._

'John, look at me! Focus!'

I'm trying, can't he see? I keep my eyes set on his, the world keeps spinning around maddeningly; its roar is deafening. _Just let me be. Please, Sherlock._

'No', he answers my unspoken thoughts. 'I'm not letting you go.'

I smile softly. Only Sherlock could have conversations with my unspoken thoughts. Then I frown. Can't he see I need a break?

He's shaking me now. 'Come on, John. You're a war hero, you're not going down like this.'

_That's the last thing I hear him telling me for quite a while._

_**.**_

'You did it on purpose, Sherlock!'

'You can't say that, John.'

'_There was no sugar in the coffee, Sherlock.'_

He gulps. He knows I've got it. I can see his big brain looking for a way out as I get more and more angered.

'I knew it was safe.'

'Safe?!'

'Safe enough to be tested on humans.'

'Test it on yourself, then!'

'You wouldn't let me, John.'

_Of course I wouldn't!_ I could scream with the genius child, but more important questions need to be addressed:

'What's the solution for?'

'It's not a solution to an exercise, John', he despises, shifting the course of the conversation.

'The potion, then?' I go sarcastic. He frowns.

'It's not a potion either. It's a regenerating serum. It makes one grow younger. It's quite revolutionary. Mycroft's men were working on it and I nicked some. Too bad this trial version only lasts a couple of days. It's got great potential. Who wouldn't want to be younger for a couple of days? Wouldn't you, John?' He's eyeing me keenly now.

'That's silly', I state firmly.

'No, it works.'

'Not feeling any younger here.'

He sighs and grabs my arm, pushing me along to the bathroom. For the first time I realise something is wrong. The mirror is too far high. And the bathtub is enormous. And the lavatory is taller as well. _What is bloody going on?_

'Don't panic, John. Whatever you do, _don't panic._'

I hear Sherlock's words from behind me. I realise all the while I've been talking to him he's been talking back to a different me. A younger version. This tall, maybe even a child.

_Definitely a child_, I gather, as I bite back the tears that spring on naturally.

How could he have done this to me? We're friends!

I realise that though my reasoning may still be somewhat that of an adult, my emotions are child-like. I want to kick Sherlock, to hurt him, for what he has done to me.

'Don't panic. It's quite temporary', he insists.

'Why, Sherlock?' is my question, the one I voice out without turning to face him. I feel the rattles in my body, under the jumper that hangs too loosely over my frame. I want to be strong. _I need to remain strong._

'I trust you', he explains. 'I needed to prove a theory and I knew you are to be trusted... It was important', he adds meaningfully. 'There was this crime in Manchester, where—'

'I don't care', I stop him short.

He still adds, in half-a-voice: 'You drank too much. I didn't plan on the four year old version of you, John.'

'Five', I correct out of instinct. I just know it. Maybe I remember it, how it felt.

'Five, then', he accepts. He knows I've always been short anyway.

I hear Sherlock tapping away on his phone. 'I'm getting you some four years old clothes, John. I've ordered online. Should be here soon.'

'Five.'

'What?'

'Five years old.' It's all I have. _Don't take anymore away from me. _I've never planned to be this frail or this dependant.

_**.**_

The clothes fit okay – even if they're from the three to five year old age bracket. From some weird monochromatic whim, Sherlock has got me in blue from head to toe. And I'd bet my shirt has silk in the composition. I don't think he knows how to dress kids.

Before I can complain, he hands me the last piece. A cosy jumper, with a sun embroided at the front. I grab it, and hug it, in one swift move.

It's me being a kid again, I know it. But I love that Sherlock remembered I like jumpers and got me a very comfy one.

_I've put it on and now I want to hug myself._ Oh, for heaven's ...!

'John', he starts, to get my attention. I look at him straight away. _I'm not giving the jumper back, it's mine now._

_What?!_

'John, focus', Sherlock demands with an eye roll. 'Greg called us to the Yard. We need to got to a crime scene.'

I shake my head.

_I can't go, Sherlock._ I'm a kid. Even Sherlock is bound to know that you don't take a child to a crime scene.

'It's Greg. We'll let him on our little secret, John.'

I frown. Still sounds like a bad idea. But looking out of the window I realise I need the fresh air. Can't stay put all weekend long on account of Sherlock's coffee.

What's the worst that can happen?

_**.**_

'Hi, Lestrade. I've brought John along.' Sherlock announces my presence with ease. The DI at the desk has a double take and scrutinises me with an intense gaze for a few seconds. He half-smiles - following a joke -, he frowns in confusion – noticing the similarities – and in worry – realising the implications –, before he angrily calls on the detective:

'Sherlock, I told you not to use it! And on John? Hasn't he had enough already?'

'I trust him', Sherlock replies.

'Well, he's the one that should be done with all the trusting, isn't he?'

'Don't panic, Greg', the taller one asks. _Does that ever work?_

'How long as it been?'

'A few hours.'

'So you've got John to drink it without his permission, Sherlock', Greg deduces knowledgeably. 'What on earth for?'

'It was a slight miscalculation. It's only a couple of days', Sherlock answers aloof. But I can see the guilt in his eyes, the hurt from being called out by someone whom he respects, rightly so. I can see it easier now, as a child, than I ever did as an adult.

'It's okay', I proclaim, bravely. Even if my voice is frailer and squeakier now.

Greg decides not to upset me. With one last angry look at Sherlock, he declares the obvious: 'It's a crime scene. We can't have a toddler there, Sherlock.'

'I'm five years old!' I interrupt, sternly. Greg is about to say something, but a glance at my features and he bites it back.

'Still, it's not the place for a child, John.'

'No one', Sherlock assures our friend, 'will see John there.'

'No', Greg won't give in.

I realise I need to settle this. I focus on Greg and ask quietly: 'Will I be here all alone?'

Greg hesitates. _Mission accomplished._ I'm starting to enjoy being a child again.

'Fine, he can come, Sherlock. But he must keep clear of the... nasty parts.'

'The body?' I ask calmly. Greg looks exasperated.

'Yes, John.'

'I'm a doctor', I remind him.

'Not now, you aren't. And you must always be by a responsible adult's side.'

'Sherlock', I identify with a smile. _That will work._

'Yeah, about that...' Greg mutters sarcastically. I frown at him, to set him straight. 'He really trusts you', Greg points out to our friend, not without some degree of surprise. I guess he thought Sherlock wouldn't be the most child-friendly person around.

'Of course he does', Sherlock minimises, but only after a beat.

'And have you been taking good care of John?'

'Naturally.'

I giggle. I've been probably the one doing all the tending towards him, instead. But I won't let it on. Greg wouldn't understand.

'John', Greg finally comes over to me. He's infantilising me, as he leans down and talks like he would to a toddler.

_I'm five years old, Greg._

_What?! No, I'm not! I'm an adult, for heaven's sake!_

'Are you hungry, John?'

It takes me a second to think it through. I suddenly realise that I'm very hungry. Haven't eaten in hours. Neither I or Sherlock thought about that.

I should have cooked some scrambled eggs. Even a five year old can do _that_.

I nod shortly, just once.

Greg throws a dark look towards Sherlock. 'I'll be right back.'

I watch Greg leave without much concern. It might be the child in me, but I'm fascinated by Greg's gun and badge left on the half-opened desk drawer. I glance at Sherlock. He's so distracted in his Mind Palace he hasn't even nicked Greg's badge yet. I get off my chair and reach over to the gun.

It's heavy and cold, and my hand is so small against it. Deadly and avenging, it's been used to protect the law and the people. I'm marvelled at the steel's shine as I take it up and aim it at the wall.

'John!'

Big hands envelope mine and the gun, extracting the object from my grasp with precision. 'It's not a toy, John.'

I roll my eyes at him. I know that. I keep _those_ memories intact. I know what it can do.

'It's still locked, Sherlock.'

'It's not a toy', he repeats as if I'm daft as well as a child. He shakes his head so vehemently that his curls bounce. I giggle before I can help myself. He frowns. Before he can say something else, Greg is returning and Sherlock swiftly puts back the gun before our friend noticed it.

_He's got my back._

'Brought you a sandwich, John. I think I remember you like tuna', Greg tells me.

_Not really._ But I'm not a picky person. Not even as a child.

I take the parcel he's brought in as Greg pours out his soul (like he's more at ease doing that with a child): 'I've realised I don't know your likings, John.' _Tuna is not a top one, Greg._ 'You are always very easy going, I think that's why.'

I frown in confusion, but there's a more important focus. I'm impatiently handing the parcel to Sherlock – he needs to eat. He hasn't eaten in hours.

Both adults glance at each other, as if me offering my food to Sherlock was a first. Well, it was as a five year old.

'John...' Sherlock starts, speechless.

'Eat it', Greg directs him. 'I'll get John another one.'

I nod, happily. _I'm hungry._

'It's John all over', Greg still mutters as he leaves the room again. 'And I'll get him a chocolate treat too.'

Sherlock is still holding the parcel in front of him as if it's made of TNT. He adds, quickly: 'Minty chocolates, Greg.'

I can't help but smile as if the whole world is wonderful.

_**.**_


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Yeah, well, I kept going, so...  
__I'm assuming it'll be three parts. I'm really sorry if you're not into it and thought I'd have moved on by now. It's been a three / four days' spur of the moment and I've let myself get carried away.  
__Still not any closer to being British, a writer, or five years old. –csf_

* * *

_**. Part Two .**_

The minty chocolates are really nice. Everything tastes better as a child, I gather, as I'm seating on the back seat of Greg's police car, parked by the stretched out crime scene tape. Both Sherlock and Greg told me sternly to stay in the car.

I only stayed because of the chocolates.

Now my hands are dirty. And my jumper too. _Fingerprints. _Sherlock likes fingerprints.

_I'm bored._

I open the door and step out. With my chocolate fingers I close the car door, leaving a palm print. I may as well add two dots and a curvy line. _There, a smiley face!_

A loud noise startles me. Everyone is gathering around a man on the other side of the tape. A witness, then. The loud noise came from the ambulance crew, arriving at the scene.

_That's one big noisy car._

Still, I'm more fascinated by the person on the floor. She's not moving. She's the victim.

I think she's hurt. I want to help her.

I kneel by the bundle of clothes, and red liquid. _It's sad. _Simple gunshot wound to the heart. She never stood a chance. It's been a while. There are maggots here, wriggling around. Two weeks, maybe? I need to tell Sherlock that. And that she...

'John?'

It was Greg, calling me, I realise, as I see both Greg and Sherlock looking for me. They look worried, by the empty car.

_Oh, no. Sherlock knows I left the car._

I get up and swiftly get away to the other side. I don't want Sherlock to find me.

Suddenly I see someone kneeling by a bin. It's a woman, a pretty lady, and she looks sick.

_I need to help her._

'Excuse me, are you feeling okay?' I call out loud.

She looks at me, startled. I can tell she's too pale, her pupils are contracted, her heart rate is too high, she's hyperventilating. Could be a panic attack, can be a poison. 'I need a medic in here!' I yell out as loud as I can. Even from my short height I help her sit down and breathe. Finally the paramedics are running towards her.

It hits me all of a sudden that I'm a child, temporarily.

There's nothing I can tell them that they won't see for themselves. I need to cover for Sherlock and Greg. I end up saying: 'I think the lady is sick.' There, a child could say it.

_A child just said it, as far as they know._

One of the paramedics starts pushing me along, away from there. 'I'm Chandler. And who are you?' _I won't answer._ 'What's your name, little boy?'

_I'm not little._

'John!' someone yells, I recognise the voice at once.

'I'm with him', I state proudly. Chandler sends Sherlock a warning glance and heads back to help his colleague.

I bite my lip.

Sherlock is coming to me, heavy footsteps, towering in his height. _I'm so small._ Before I know it, I'm cringing. I know he'll be angry. He'll call me stubborn, he'll think I'm stupid.

Oh, for heaven's sake! I've got tears prickling in my eyes and I'm fighting hard to soldier on. I guess Sherlock's solution had as much of an effect on my emotions as it did on my body. I'm a five years old boy scared he's going to be told off by a very cross Sherlock. I used to sustain his remarks easily. Now I'm shivering in anticipation. I know what he'll say. I know he'll be mean to me and...

_Oh, for heaven's sake!_

Suddenly I realise Sherlock's whole demeanour has changed as he was faced with a shivering five year old. He's looking around in a desperate call for backup. He really doesn't know what to do. He's faced hardened criminals with more ease. Still, he kneels by my side, maybe a feet away, scared he'll make me more emotional.

'John, what is it? Are you... scared?' I can see the hurt in his deep eyes. He never thought I'd be scared of him.

I nod, ashamed.

'It's alright, John. Can you tell me why you ran away?'

I curl up my fists, as I find my hands shaking.

'I had to help the pretty lady.'

He smiles. At first I think he's teasing me for calling her pretty. But then I realise it's because he understood I couldn't turn away.

'I'm sorry, John', he tells me, coming closer. 'I didn't realise you still kept your medical knowledge.'

I shrug. _I didn't either._ Sherlock just stands there, as if he's waiting for me to say something. I realise that as a child I'm expected to say: 'I'm sorry too.'

He tilts his head. Sherlock is not like the rest of the adults. 'What for?'

I smile at last. 'You need to say you forgive me, Sherlock', I lead him on. 'That is, if you do.'

'That's silly. We both know you're not sorry _and_ you'd do it again.' I nod. 'Only next time can you leave me a note?'

I look at my feet, embarrassed. _I'm not much at writing at five years old._

Sherlock doesn't read my mind this time. Instead he reaches out to me, a hand on my shoulder.

'Let's go home. You must be tired.'

He's right. Sherlock might actually be good at this parenting thing after all.

_**.**_

Two frozen dinners defrosted in the microwave and Sherlock and I are seated at the kitchen table. We could really be seated in different countries, it would hardly make a difference. Sherlock is concentrated on the crime scene details up on his laptop screen, I'm left at the table pushing my peas around in the plate.

Finally, I get off my chair and walk over to the sink. The smaller version of myself gets worn out much faster. I try to reach out to my mug to wash it and fill it with coffee. My body may be small but my mind isn't up to an afternoon nap, no way.

'John, what are you doing?' Sherlock asks from over his laptop.

'Making coffee', I answer adamantly in my annoyingly squeaky voice. 'Want some?'

'You can't have coffee, John.'

'Says who?' I defy stubbornly. _Not long ago I was the one taking care of him._

I get the kettle on (it's heavier than I remember), holding in a yawn.

'You need to eat your peas first', Sherlock tells me, with a twinkle in his eyes.

'After you!' He hasn't even touched his.

'You need your veggies, John.'

'What for? To grow tall? We all know how that one turned out...'

'Two spoons full', he negotiates.

'No.'

'Three, then.'

'No, Sherlock, that's not how you do it! You can't increase the amount...' I sigh. 'Fine! I'll have the two freaking spoons...'

'Language, John!'

'Oh, stuff it!' I reply, cranky.

I go and sit by his side and reach for the spoon. The kettle hasn't boiled yet anyway. As I'm chewing I'm getting more and more tired. I don't care so much to find out that I'm leaning towards Sherlock. _He's comfy._ My head falls on his shoulder.

Next thing I know I must have fallen asleep, for when I wake up I'm laying across the long sofa, with a blanket atop of me and the skull by my side like a strange adaptation of a teddy bear.

_It makes me giggle_. It's all so much funnier when you're a child.

There's a note on the coffee table. It's Sherlock's handwriting but I struggle to piece the letters and the sounds together coherently. After a while I realise it says: "Gone to the Yard, John. I'll be back at five. –SH".

I look over at the clock Mrs Hudson left on the table for Sherlock, stating that routines are important for children ("John is not an ordinary child, Mrs Hudson!").

_I can't read the analogical clocks._ But I don't think it's five yet. There's too much light outside. In the desert we often went by sunlight and down casted shadows. Only it was hot there, during the day. And painful. I...

I'm curling up on myself. I don't want to be _here_ anymore. I remember a lot of noise, and it hurts, and other people, my friends, they hurt too, and I want to help them so I close my eyes because I want to see them, but now I can't make it all go away, and–

'John! Talk to me, John!'

It's Sherlock. He's shaking me. He appeared out of nowhere. _It's like he knew._

'There's a nanny cam in the mantelpiece, connected to an app on my phone, John. I saw you space out and shake from head to toe. And the look, I've seen it before, John. We need to stop this now. You can't be five forever.' He hugs me in despair.

'I'm fine', I say automatically, frozen on the spot.

'I'm taking you to Mycroft's doctors tonight.'

'No', I insist stubbornly, pushing him away. 'They reckoned it'd last a couple of days. I can do this for a couple of days.'

Sherlock's gaze is uncertain. He's the one shaking now, minutely. I should say something to him, but I really can't.

'Can I play the violin?' he asks me. It draws a smile out of me at last. I really like hearing him play. He's very good and the deep rich melodies never fail to sooth me.

Reverentially, he takes out the violin from the case, then the bow. Before he starts playing he insists I lay back down under the covers. I know night has already fallen outside the windows, but I never want to sleep again.

'Will you stay here, Sherlock?'

He nods, serious.

'I'm staying, John. You'll hear me play all night long.'

I yawn before I can help it. He takes the violin to his chin and teases the strings in a beautiful melody. I let the peace fill me.

'It makes it all go away', I mumble as a five year old. He doesn't ask me to explain myself. _He knows it too._

Finally I let my guard down and close my eyes, exhaustion draining me.

_Being five years old is no piece of cake._

_**.**_

I must have slept close to twelve hours. My temporary condition drains my energy very fast. On the upside, there are no aches to my old bones, no grey hairs, no adult concerns. Physically I'm a five year old, mentally I'm an adult, and emotionally I tend to follow the pattern of my body. Twice now I've almost lost it. I was very close to sobbing in front of Sherlock, the last person I want to see me like that. Because he'd see me differently if I did, and because I know he's scared. I drank an experimental drug. He never expected this to go so far. He thought he'd deal with the twenty year old version of me. The Captain Watson days, or the med school days. Instead he got himself a pre-school aged John to parent for the weekend.

I'm really surprised he didn't just hand me over to Mrs Hudson.

Although I'm happy he foresaw the usefulness of giving in and begging her to prepare our meals. Which she has accepted, gracefully and willingly.

Mrs Hudson has been motherly to me ever since she found out. She lectured Sherlock throughout, adding ominously that our crazy detective was going to have a run for his money now, he'd learn a lesson. I didn't quite grasp it, but maybe it was because I was busy building a fort out of blankets and pillows in the living room.

Sherlock never says No in my play times. _Good thing I always tidy up in the end._

'And how is our John doing today?' Mrs H asks from the stove. I can smell pancakes. It makes me smile.

'Fine' is all Sherlock says, as he supervises my fort silently from his armchair.

'As he... you know, dear... _grown_?'

'No, he's still short.'

I stick out my tongue to Sherlock. He sticks his back to me. That makes me giggle.

'How long...?'

'One more day, Mrs Hudson. _Just one more day._' I look up at Sherlock. I could have sworn he spoke longingly. 'He's really clever too', Sherlock adds. Mrs Hudson hums in response. 'John, what do I need acetylsalicylic acid for?'

I know this one. I point out my head. 'When it hurts.'

'What colour is a potassium permanganate solution?'

I frown. 'Violet.'

'And methylene blue?'

I giggle. 'Blue.'

'And what's the rate of decomposition of–'

'_Sherlock!_' It's Mrs Hudson, and she looks really cross at Sherlock now, I don't know why.

'Time to eat, John', he directs me. 'I've got work to do!'

'Am I going too?' _Pretty please?_

He actually smiles. 'Of course, John', he answers fondly. At the kitchen Mrs Hudson is smiling on us. In an impulsive move I reach out and hug her. She is quick to hug me back, and tells me as a secret just between the two of us: "My brave little boy".

She called me Brave. She knows this is harder on me than I let on. She can see it. I think she knows me better than I'll ever be able to tell her in words.

_**.**_


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: Loved to have ended this one earlier but real life gets in the way as always. So here it goes finally. It gets a bit heavier because it seemed fitting, for symmetry with the start and to catapult John back into the grown-up's world (am I giving the plot away?).  
__(The grown-up's world being the one in which I have no opportunity to write. What have I done? Just kidding, we all need to be kids sometimes, that's where this one started actually.) –csf_

* * *

_**. Part Three / last part .**_

Greg Lestrade supervises us attentively as we arrive at the crime scene. I can see in his face that he opposes me being there, for whatever well intended reason – after all, I've seen the body already, long gone by now. Sherlock must have convinced him somehow. Maybe he reminded the DI that I'm still the same John that shared occasional pints with the Yard lot. At least on the inside. He may get a bit distracted with me hiding away the shoe that I failed to lace into a correct bow, behind my other foot.

_I don't need help, I used to stitch patients. _Now I can't even tie my shoes correctly.

'Are you okay there, John?' he tries to talk to me directly, even if Sherlock is impatiently demanding that he goes to see the prime suspect, the man they questioned the night before, outside the police tape. Sherlock is sure he did it. With the help of the sick lady the ambulance crew helped.

'I'm okay, Greg', I try to assure him in my most grown-uppish tone. 'Can I go with Sherlock?'

'Maybe you can stay here and do a drawing for me, John', he tries to bargain. I feel tempted, but in the end I must shake my head.

Sherlock is already moving in, distant and demanding. How Greg puts up with him is beyond me. I follow Sherlock's lead at once.

Greg still asks me, with a shy expression in his brown eyes: 'Why do you want to go, John? Is it because Sherlock will be there?'

I shrug. I don't know why. Anyway 'I'm his blogger, Greg.'

'Yeah, but why do you do _that_?' he insists. All of a sudden, even Sherlock is attentive to our conversation.

I just shrug again. Sherlock saves lives, fixes wrongs. Why wouldn't I want to be there as well? It's too much of a concept to explain to adults for a child and I just keep quiet. _Guarding my secrets, I suppose._

Finally Greg allows me into the crime scene. 'Don't go wondering off again, John', he still tells me.

I give him my best smile. 'I won't!'

He ruffles my hair. 'Cheeky, aren't you?'

_I like Greg._

Sherlock moves swiftly in front, I follow closely in the rear. _Some things never change._

All of a sudden we hear a sharp noise from the nearest ran down house. It was supposed to be empty. 'He came back!' Sherlock assures in a bright piece of monologue, excited for his catch. 'He realised the woman saw him now that her photograph has been published in the papers by the police – they still don't know who she is and they are making a public enquiry -, and he's just realised that she will not hold as his accomplice anymore. She will tell it all to the police unless he can get to her first. So he came here to spy on the police and figure out–' He suddenly halts, eyes wide open, senses completely and utterly engaged in solving the final piece of the case. 'This is how he lured the victim here!' he blurts out as he points out at me and yells out the order: 'Stay there, John, just _please_ stay there.'

I decide to stay, but I'm trembling in anticipation. _I wish he hadn't said Please._ I wish I could follow him. I wish I was bigger and could help him at all.

A loud noise and a sharp cry that I'd recognise anywhere. _Sherlock's hurt._

I'm running as fast as my short legs let me. _I'm already late. _My small feet are tapping the stairs lightly, almost silently. Being small and light is the only advantage I have this time.

The door to the only lit room is half-open and I slid inside at once, without being noticed.

The sight I have of the room freezes me in the spot. The suspect has a gun in his hand and death in his eyes. He's standing over a fallen unconscious Sherlock. He's going to fire the gun at him.

I rush over to Sherlock, ruining the surprise element's advantage.

_Come on, Sherlock, wake up! He's evil, he wants to hurt you! Wake up, please!_

I look over my shoulder at the surprised murderer that just got me as a bonus prize.

_I'm no match for his deathly plans._

In his hands is the same model and maker of the gun that killed the lady at the crime scene. Sherlock was right all along. And only Sherlock and I stand in his way now. He's still pointing the gun at the unconscious man. _He did the same with the victim, that's why she didn't struggle, and got shot straight on._

_Sherlock's next._

Instinct kicks in. I know what to do. I can do this.

My small fingers grab the steel gun that Sherlock has taken from me since I became a child. _Good parenting decision, but I'm taking it back._ I know this gun as the back of my hand. I don't remember it being this heavy, as I raise it in one swift move. I'm sternly aiming it at a cold blooded murderer. With both hands I hold it at chest level, I wouldn't be able to hold it up at arm's length as usual.

'Don't make me do this', I tell him as a fair warning he doesn't deserve. Captain Watson would have stricken a better response. My voice is frail and squeaky, my hands are shaking due to the sheer weight of the gun – _feels as heavy as the world._ 'Leave Sherlock alone.'

The man smirks cruelly. I can see the decision cross his face in a flicker, I can see the trigger squeeze, as if in slow motion.

_I said "leave him alone"._

The explosion in the gun's chamber is massive. As my gun fires first it sends back a recoil that hits me squarely and heavily on the chest. _I didn't think of that._ It throws me back on the ground like I was just kicked by a dozen horses. I hit the floor in pain, hurt, and raw fear.

I drop the gun at once. It's hot and smells of oil. _I used to enjoy that smell._

'John?'

Sherlock is recuperating. Immediately he takes his hand over mine and the gun I've let go of, taking control. He points it at the murderer. I suppose I should go there and check him out medically. I know I pointed at his leg, but my five years old's accuracy is doubtful. I just can't get myself straight, tears are diffusing the images in front of me. I try to bite them back.

I just shot someone. _Not the first time._

_It always comes with a price._

Sherlock is still pointing the gun (the murderer must be alive then) when he surrounds me with an arm, in a tight hug, maybe even a thankful hug. I'm shivering as I curl against his coat.

'Sherlock?'

It's Greg's voice, as he's running up the stairs to get to us. As he arrives I see him stagger at the scene. Sherlock is enveloping me in his arms, the murderer is down. Greg immediately takes control, pulling out handcuffs and phone to call an ambulance.

Only afterwards he lets his anger out on Sherlock:

'You fired a gun in front of a child?'

Sherlock silently shakes his head. Greg gulps. I just curl up even more. I realise my emotions are letting me down, as heavy tears stream down my cheeks.

'John protected me', Sherlock states quietly. 'There was no other way. I think instinct kicked in.'

Greg glances at me and nods. 'I've got this. Take him out of here.'

Sherlock knows I'm a wreck. He just takes the frightened five years old I'm at the moment in his arms to carry me out.

'Wait!' Greg asks. I recoil in fear. _I'm in trouble now._ 'John', he faces me seriously. 'That was very brave.'

I shake my head. _It was the only thing I could have done._

A couple of hours later and I'm still grabbing onto Sherlock's shirt collar, for dear life. He acts like it's the most natural thing in the world, out of complicity. I've stopped crying a while ago but I still feel scared.

Greg made us come to Scotland Yard. I think it's just to keep an eye on us.

They gave me chocolate, and tea, they know I like it. Then they ran out of ideas. Not that I care, I just want Sherlock.

'John', Sherlock starts again. He's been trying for the last couple of hours, every once in a while. 'We need to get you checked out by a doctor. You're a doctor, you know this.'

'I'm fine', I mutter to his shirt. It's not like he's stopped hugging me since I started crying too.

'I can play the violin next', he tries to negotiate. _You're still not very good at negotiating, Sherlock. _I shake my head, stubbornly.

Slowly, small fits of bubbly giggles are erupting without my permission. _We can't giggle, it's a crime scene!_ I see a relieved light on Sherlock's light coloured eyes as he sees me struggle under the weight of the events, and going past them.

_**.**_

It's almost longingly that I come back to Baker Street. I know the serum's effect is about to come to an end. Sherlock won't leave my side, he knows this will scare us both.

Part of me wants to get this over with, fast. Another part, a younger part, welcomes this second chance of childhood days, this time spent by the side of the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

'Sherlock?' I call him, as soon as I leave the bathroom in one of my grown-up jumpers and gym bottoms that trail on the floor under my feet.

He welcomes me with a blanket, draping it around me. _He really took this caring to heart._

'Yes, John?'

'Will I keep the memory of these days?'

He nods, respectfully. 'There seems to be no reason for an episodic amnesia, John.'

I'm chewing on my lip as I struggle to shut up. In the end, the child in me wins over the fight and I hug him, one last time. 'Thanks', I tell him, hoping that one word can convey it all. The support, the understanding, the caring he showed me.

'Don't say that', he whispers in my ear as he hugs the child back. 'This was all my fault, John. Just... know that I won't do it again.'

I nod. _I already know that._ It's one of those child things. I can read him like a book.

'You can go to your room and sleep, Sherlock. I'll be all grown up when you wake up in the morning.'

'Do you really think I'd leave you now?' He hasn't stopped hugging me either.

_It's starting to become awkward._

Or maybe the grown-up in me is starting to take over.

I'm becoming really sleepy now. And Sherlock's hold is so comfortable, I just let myself get lost in it...

In a flash moment of adult reasoning I realise _he's drugged me again._

_Sleeping pills._ I've been through enough pain the first time the serum transformed me. He couldn't bear seeing five year old John go through it.

_Sherlock, you've learnt nothing._

_Luckily._

'_Just drop it, John. _Accept it without a fight this time. You fought enough in your life already.'

I fall asleep giggling – _he just had to trick me one last time _– he's giggling along with me.

_**.**_

I wake up with my shoulder both tingling and numb. Slept too long, again. Being a child is more draining than I would have guessed.

The memories of yesterday hit me all of a sudden. Sherlock's in danger, the gun's recoil, _the serum_... I get up fast and have a good look at myself. I'm all grown up again. From a physician's point of view my reflexes, blood pressure, breathing and senses all seem back to the starting point. There appear to be no lasting symptoms of my temporary infancy.

_Yesterday I didn't want to grow. Today I'm glad I did._

And Sherlock? He must have left my room only when he saw evident signs of my return.

_He'll be more alone now._ I need to go and find him.

I descend the stairs into the living room, more quietly than I'd have done as a kid.

He doesn't seem as surprised to see my old self as I'd have guessed. A fast glance at me and he stonewalls his expression, turning immobile as well.

_Like he's seen me before._ I understand he has. Sherlock must have stayed by my side all through the transformation, making sure I regressed safely back to adulthood. Making sure the aging process stopped where it was supposed to, as well. _He really must have felt guilty._

Again, he's seen me in my most vulnerable state and stood by me.

Only then I realise something is off – far more than unusual – in the living room. The sofa's pillows are stacked up, the blanket is skewed sideways from a chair, and Sherlock is sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, facing the sofa. He looks like he was solving some puzzle when I walked in. _And building a fort of pillows and blankets._ Like I did, the morning before. What on earth is going on?

_Why is his fort so lopsided?_

With a confident smile I walk over and sit on the living room's floor, just by my friend's side.

'You need more pillows on the back, Sherlock, it's the classical way in for insurgents', I assure him.

He frowns, completely disregarding the fact that I caught a grown man playing. _Oh, well, this is 221B anyway._

'Was that what you were doing, John?' he faces me frontally at last. I realise I must have been his puzzle. _Was he helping me or studying me all along? _'Were you reliving your war days? Trying to make sense of the memories you still held from the battlefield but as a five year old?'

'What?! No!' I shake my head, vehemently. 'Not consciously, at least. And I wasn't replaying the war. I was playing forts, and castles, and dragons, and there may have been a princess to rescue. It was me being a kid, Sherlock. I really couldn't help it, Sherlock. It felt natural... _right_.' He hums in response, I can still see the curiosity in his cat-like eyes. 'And you?' I turn the table on him. 'Were you trying to scientifically recreate my playtime in order to study my childhood?'

He actually sends me a look, before shrugging. 'It looked like fun, John, that's all. I enjoyed watching your child-like sense of wonder and excitement so apparent.'

I smirk. 'Then you should have joined in, Sherlock', I tell him, frankly. 'You still can', I assure him, setting the lateral pillows straight. 'Bring that blanket over the top, that's the roof.'

He just smiles, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

_**.**_


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: Shall we call this a temporary phase?  
__I'm actually taking a risk on this one, because I don't have it fully planned yet. I'll blame this one on Christmas time. –csf_

* * *

_**. Part One .**_

Slept better than I had in months. Woke up energetic and... happy. I can't explain it. I'm just _happy. Wonder where that comes from. _Sherlock's been on and on about this new case and I've finally agreed on spending a night at Baker Street. We've been working late on the few leads available to the mystery centred at a Youth Centre. We've uncovered as much as we could so far, and even Sherlock is grasping at straws now. He won't ever admit it to me, or to Greg, but I can tell.

With a sigh I get up from bed. A slight dizziness gets to me. And strangely enough my customary shoulder ache didn't manifest. _Very strange indeed._

When did the bed stand become so high? When did my shoulder become so flexible? And I woke up happy for no good reason...

_No, no, no..._

'Sherlock!' I scream at my mad friend. Even before I walk over to the mirror on the wardrobe I know what has happened. 'Sherlock! Get in here!' I yell in an annoying squeaky voice. _The voice of a five year old._

_Again._

This time Sherlock must have drugged me in my sleep.

_This-is-just-not-right-Sherlock._

_Typical. _He's not coming up. Turned me into a kid and now he's gone into bloody hiding...

I fasten tighter my pyjama shorts that kept sliding down, under my over large t-shirt. I don't even bother with the socks or I may trip over the stairs.

_Sometimes I hate Sherlock._

Damn, I had forgotten _this_ already. As I've grown younger physically, I retain most of my physical capacities as an adult. I remember medicine, and differential equations, and organic chemistry, stuff I've learnt later on. The only hitch in Sherlock's master plan is that my emotions get stuck closer to those of a five year old. And as a pre-schooler I was a happy short kid, the one Sherlock got to know for a couple of days a few months ago.

_Last time he poisoned my coffee, actually._

'Sherlock?' I call again, still angry.

I'm a clingy five years old, I suppose, because secretly I still feel anxious to see Sherlock, to make sure it was his doing, and that he's got this under control.

_I need to believe in him._

_He's my best friend. He takes care of me when I'm five years old._

I knock on Sherlock's door, it's half open and the room is dark and quiet. 'Sherlock?' I insist.

There's a lumpy volume on the bed, I realise with relief. _I'm not alone._

I climb to his bed and sit by his side before shaking him again. _Wake up!_

The disarrayed mass of black curls visible above the covers whimpers. I giggle. Hardly looks like Sherlock at all. Sherlock never sleeps!

I shake my head again. Next thing I know a very pale face jumps off from the pillow and stares at me. I recognise Sherlock's metallic eyes, but his face—_He's young._

_Very young._

_My current age, in fact._

'Sherlock, is that you?' I ask him.

He tilts his head to the side, silently examining me. Finally he smiles, like an artist in front of his creation.

'John, it's me', he assures me, in a sharp confident whisper.

_Sherlock, what have you done?_

'You took the coffee too?' I grasp.

'Not coffee this time, John. but if you mean the regenerating serum from Mycroft's _white coats people_' - he struggles with the wording - 'then yes, I have provided us both with the correct amounts to turn you into a five year old child, and me a seven year old.'

I'm giggling. 'You're not seven, Sherlock. You're as old as me.'

'Impossible. I calculated the precise amount required for both of us.' And he's a graduate chemist.

'Yeah, but did you have it on an empty tummy?'

He frowns, annoyed. He sees now where his plan went wrong. Most of all, a five year old just told the certified genius scientist how his master plan was flawed.

'You said "tummy" ', he points out as if that made me a toddler.

'You said "white coats" ', I reply at once. 'Some words just go away, don't they?' _He's new at this._

He presses his lips thin. 'Not to me. I'm clever.'

I nod. I know he is.

Sherlock seems surprised I didn't retaliate about his cleverness. He's tilting his head again, studying me. Finally he states: 'You're clever too, John.'

I smile. He might be saying I'm clever because it's clever to know that someone else is clever, which makes him even more clever than me, because he knows we are both clever, but I'm still okay with that.

Finally I frown, looking all around in the darkened room.

'Who will take care of us, Sherlock?'

He assures me at once: 'Mrs Hudson.'

I nod, content. 'Will she makes us breakfast?'

'Maybe' he stalls. _I can see right through him like a child always does._

'Does she know we're kids? Both of us?'

'She will. I left her a not on a piece of paper, stabbed on the landing wall.'

I know she'll be angry Sherlock has been ruining more wallpaper. I hope that doesn't mean she'll keep from doing pancakes for us.

'Come on, Sherlock!' I tell him.

'What is it?'

'Let's get dressed and figure out why you turned us both into kids.'

'Can't Mrs H bring my food to my bed? I'm tired.'

I frown at him. 'Don't be lazy, Sherlock!'

'I'm not lazy!'

'Then make _her_ breakfast!' _There!_

'I suppose you want me to do your breakfast as well, John!' he points out as if he's cleverer than me.

'No', I respond in my most grown-uppish tone. 'I can take care of myself.'

'Then make me some breakfast, will you?' he twirls his hand in the air.

'No.'

'No?'

'No. If I can do it, so can you, Sherlock.'

He diverts his gaze so he doesn't have to face me. 'I don't know how to make breakfast', he stammers as if the confession is painful. I grab his arm to make him look at me.

'I will help you, Sherlock.'

'Will you?'

'You always help me.' _Simple._

He nods, biting his lip. I'm starting to understand why he chose to become a seven year old, two years older than me. _Well, that plan backfired, Sherlock. We're stuck as kids, same age._

_**.**_

Sherlock looks stroppy, as he's sat at the kitchen table, waiting for breakfast. I'm getting us two glasses of warm milk ready, he was supposed to get us a couple of cookies each, out of the packet on the shelf. He can reach the shelf if he stands on a chair. He's taller than me._ He's always taller than me._

_Good thing we're friends. We can help each other._

'John?' he calls me finally.

'Hm?'

'John!' he insists, more angrily now. I finally place down the two cups of milk and look at him.

Sherlock's eyes are watering as he fights to remain strong.

_The serum has affected his emotions too._

'What's wrong? Are you... sad?'

He shakes his head almost violently, his curls bouncing back and forth. Before he can help himself he spurts out the question: 'Are you still angry at me, John?'

I shrug. Maybe a bit. Certainly less than before. I can never stay mad at Sherlock long.

My friend just leans over the table, sticking his elbows on it to be closer to me as he needlessly whispers: 'I thought you were angry at me, John. I didn't like it. How it felt.'

I nod, understanding.

'That's okay, Sherlock. You are my friend. My best friend, too.'

He quickly takes his sleeve to the corner of his eye. I giggle. That's silly. 'You're my friend too, aren't you?'

Sherlock nods, seriously. Again he looks very stern, very old. He should be happier. _I need to teach him that._

There are fast uneven footsteps in the stairs coming up to 221B. Sounds like Mrs Hudson, she's hurrying along like the time Sherlock ran out of storage space in the fridge and took his stuff downstairs. She didn't like the surprise at all.

I'm still giggling from the memory – and again Sherlock is staring at me in utter incomprehension – when Mrs H opens the door wide, wind in her feet.

'Oh, Sherlock, I could be so angry with you right now!' she scolds him as she forces him into a loving hug. _He's squirming his way out._ 'And you, John, did he tell you this time?'

I glance at Sherlock, he's stopped struggling, as if scared Mrs H might scream at him. And his eyes are watering again. _I need to cover for him._

I nod, even though it's a lie.

'John, why didn't you tell me? I expected better from you, young man!' She's a bit cross at me now. _I didn't foresee that._ I bite my lip to keep me from telling the truth.

_He's my friend._

'If you do that again, John', she's really upset – _I think she feels hurt _– 'I'm putting you on a time out!'

_Not fair!_ I look over at Sherlock. Instead of telling the truth he seems even more scared. How can he be scared of sweet Mrs Hudson? _It's alright, Sherlock, I won't tell._

Mrs Martha Hudson is no fool. I think she's onto us, all of a sudden.

'Why don't I make you boys some pancakes? Would you like that, John?' I nod at once, excited. Sherlock rolls his eyes, pretending it will make him all grown up. 'And some pancakes for you, Sherlock?'

It's his turn to nod enthusiastically.

He's starting to grasp the good side of being a kid again.

_**.**_


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: I don't know why I started writing such long pieces. There are others on the way, more to the usual standard, I think, but still a bit long. Well, I'll tell all about it when the time comes. It's too presumptuous of me to believe someone will keep on reading. –csf_

* * *

_**. Part Two .**_

'Mrs Hudson, may I have the letter on your apron's pocket?'

Sherlock's quick question is accompanied by the same bright eyed look Mrs H and I know so well. She lowers her gaze only to be surprised to realise there's really a letter there. She takes it out, puzzled by the fact that it bears Sherlock's name in his smart handwriting.

'Is this yours, dear?'

'Yes. Our instructions are in there.'

'Instructions?' she repeats.

I'm starting to doubt how much Sherlock actually explained in his improvised sticky note. Did Mrs Hudson believe Sherlock had wished to try out this childhood thing and changed us both on a whim? Most of all, was she okay with babysitting us for a whim? I realise she deeply cares for Sherlock ("I'm just his landlady, dear" couldn't be further away from the truth), no matter what our mad detective friend gets himself into.

He insists, patience wearing thin just like the adult detective we know. 'Yes, I turned John and I into kids for a reason. There is work to do!' he exclaims excitedly, holding out his hand.

'John...?' She shares a knowledgeable look with me. I sigh. Worriedly she hands the letter to a still demanding Sherlock. With a regretful shake of her head she goes back downstairs to 221A.

'Finally!' Sherlock squeals triumphantly as he browses through the letter's contents. He's a fast reader, especially for a five year old. _Sherlock must have been quite the gifted child. _He's more excited about this than he was about Mrs H's pancakes.

_We promised her we'd stay put._

'Sherlock, we're five years old now!' I remind him. Trying to hold him back.

'We've got a case, John! A case!'

Some things never change and it's mesmerising to see a younger version of Sherlock to be so truthful to the man I know as my good friend. He has always been particularly fond of disregarding social conventions that he either fails to comprehend or refuses their subjective importance.

'We can't show up and investigate a murder as a couple of kids!'

He frowns. 'Of course we can. It's the perfect cover, John.'

'Some things are best left for adults. _Complete _adults, I mean.'

From the height of his small age, Sherlock smirks hurtfully. 'You're scared, John. I think I misjudged you at this age.'

I curl up my fists, biting my lip to fend off the inevitable tears springing to my eyes. _I thought you were my friend, Sherlock._ My only best friend, too. 'I...'

'You're a baby, John!' he taunts me.

I stamp my foot down, my fists are shaking with anger now. _I'll show him._

'Fine! We'll go!'

_I'm not a five year old baby!_

_Wait! What?_

Sherlock doesn't allow me to think it through. He's already pushing me along. I realise I may just have been manipulated by a very stubborn kid Sherlock.

_He really wants me to come along._

_Fine, I'll let him have this one. He needs someone to take care of him anyway._

_**.**_

We tried getting a cab, but no cabbie will take two kids without a responsible adult. It's another minor flaw to Sherlock's master plan. We ended up using the money to buy subway tickets and icecreams. We stood very close to the adult up ahead in the cue and inside the carriage we sat together. No one seems to have noticed we're on our own in the busy subway car.

I hold out a yawn as I look out of the window into the flashing lights of the dark underground tunnel. _It's making me sleepy._ That's another trouble with being a kid. I get tired far too quickly.

Sherlock must be tired too, but he'll never let it show. He keeps his stoic adult's act. _I have no idea who's he trying to impress._

All in all, my friend Sherlock is taking longer to warm up to this idea of enjoying our temporary childhood. He seems far too concerned about the case.

Last time, it was only me the child. He seemed fascinated by my child-like embrace of the situation. Strangely enough he seems to believe he'll be immune to the serum's emotional effects. He believes he's far too rational – a fine tuned brain, scientific and precise – to fall under the magic spell that is being a child.

And that's why I'm determined to teach him just that. Who better to do that than another five year old?

'John?'

He startles me with his call. 'What?'

'You were humming.'

'Was I?' Can't recall.

'You were making race car sounds, I think.'

_Oh._ Maybe I was.

Before I can say anything more he instructs me: 'We exit on the next stop. Stay close to me.'

I nod. We can't afford to lose each other in this big city.

'Are you sure?' I still check. Sometimes I feel like I need to keep an eye on Sherlock, make sure he's okay.

_Old habits die hard, I suppose._

'You should remember, John, that I keep the memory of every single station and line in my Mind Palace.'

'The whole of London?' I confirm. Seems like a big task to me. As a child I keep forgetting to store back the milk in the fridge. He nods in response, very serious. 'Then why do we usually take cabs everywhere?' I still ask. He holds his answer, keeping silent.

Sherlock exits the carriage in a sea of hurried people, I follow close behind, holding onto his hand to keep us close together.

_**.**_

Early this morning, Sherlock had successfully turned us both into kids. It soon became apparent that he had previously made suitable arrangements and left us instructions. One of his preparations was getting us children-sized clothes. I had scrunched my nose upon finding a set of pristine tailored clothes for me and him, including white shirts and cotton trousers. _We both look like mini Sherlocks now._

_No jumpers this time._

So as we arrive at Sherlock's intended location I realise that we both look like a couple of school kids in uniform. I guess that was his plan all along. _I still don't see the harm in a nice comfy jumper._ I'm feeling cold now.

Sherlock glances at me in time to see me rub my hands together to warm them.

'I'm sorry', he mutters, still not comfortable at all with the expression. 'I must have forgotten to give us proper clothes to keep us warm. I... sometimes, I get carried away, John.'

Not the first time he's forgotten that I need to eat, sleep and be warm during a case. It's just Sherlock being Sherlock.

I smile to him, hoping to bring a smile to his face as well.

_It's okay, Sherlock. I know you wanted very much to solve this case._ That's why he brought us to a Youth Centre disguised as normal kids. Because as adults we had found all the clues there for us to find. Maybe if we mingle with the other kids we can get new information.

'Where's the soccer ball, Sherlock?' I ask, confidently.

He frowns. _That's not good._

'Why would I have one?'

'Never mind, Sherlock. It was just an idea. A kid with a ball can always mingle among other kids, you see. We always want to play ball. Did you think of something else?' He shakes his head. 'A pack of cards? We can play for beans.'

'Not with your gambling situation', he shoots out. Makes no sense and I scold him with a good look.

'So what was your plan, Sherlock?'

He looks down and to the side. 'I thought you'd talk to them, John. You're good at that. Talking to people. Everyone talks to you.'

I sigh. 'Can we at least make something mischievous? Like a sling-shot of a v-shaped branch and an elastic band?'

'Do you have an elastic band?'

'I'm a boy, I have everything in my pockets... Don't you?'

He smiles, happily. _Too happily, as if he never got into big trouble before. _'Can we break a window and run away?'

I nod, enthusiastically. 'Choose a window, Sherlock.' _We're partners in crime now._

I have a vague feeling that as an adult I'd disapprove this. I'd still do it for Sherlock, though.

'The director's window is the third on the right, John.'

'How can you possibly know...? Never mind.'

'Can you hit it?'

'Easily. Get ready to run.'

'Not too fast, John. We want to get caught', he moderates me. 'That's the way to get inside, so we can talk to the kids.' _He means "the other" kids._

'They'll have to call an adult.'

'I've got that covered.'

_**.**_

We hear hurried footsteps stamping the wood staircase leading up to the director's office, where we stand, after being caught and scolded. I look over at Sherlock. Again he looks in complete control of the situation. As if he had programmed it all along.

Still, I doubt anyone else knew about our state before this.

'Sherlock!' It's Greg's voice. He's the visitor and he greets the director with a handshake, formally. The urgency in his voice can't quite mask the concern. For a moment I wonder if he knows this is part of a plan. 'Sherlock, are you okay?' he asks even before he gets updated.

The dark curly haired boy by my side straightens himself up even more. Like he's proud that he's about to be told off again and there's nothing Greg can do about it.

_He's a little rebel._

'I believe you know these two boys, detective inspector Lestrade', director Chandler starts, sternly.

Greg just mumbles, in an improvise: 'Yeah, sad case about their families. I took them on for the time being... What troubles have they gotten themselves into this time?'

The director hums sadly. 'I see. We've got a lot of that around here, and I sympathise with your position. Well, I've got a broken window and they've willingly admitted to breaking it with a stone.'

Greg doubts: 'Are you telling me they've hit this window from the courtyard bellow? Nice shot!'

Chandler clears his throat. Sherlock bites back a giggle, that calls Greg's attention onto us. His gaze lingers on me._ He knows who broke the window. He just doesn't know why._

'Why don't I leave you to have a conversation with the boys?' Chandler offers Greg. 'They may need more help than you can manage on your own, DI Lestrade. We run a very successful programme with troubled youth like them.'

'Yeah, right', Greg keeps all options open, grasping at straws about what we want from him. _He's a good man at heart._ He wants to help us even though we've deceived him.

As soon as Chandler leaves the room, Greg walks over to get close to us. So close he's almost touching us even though he's frozen to the spot.

_He's seen the five year old me before, but not the five year old Sherlock._

_I guess it's a lot to grasp._

'There's a plan, right, Sherlock?' is his first question.

Sherlock nods, serious.

'And', Greg carries on, 'you two are on some sort of a case.'

Sherlock nods again.

'And this was strictly necessary. It's not a result of your child instincts?'

Sherlock frowns. 'Why do you ask me, Lestrade? You know who broke the window...'

I kick Sherlock immediately. He's so fast to prove himself clever and grown-up at this age that he's just called me out.

'Right...' Greg plays along. I know he still believes Sherlock has been affected by his condition, and it worries him. He's seen it before in me, when I was a child, a couple of months ago.

'Have you read your letter of instructions?' the little detective carries on, very seriously, and all business-like.

'What letter?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'If you haven't been in your inbox today then just play along. We need your help. John and I are to spend the night on this institution. The only thing is we need to be kept together.' He looks down on his toes and adds: 'And if you could bring John a jumper tomorrow I'd really appreciate it. I seem to have neglected that minor detail.'

Greg smiles for the first time. Yet I can sense his reluctance in leaving us two unattended in what is, essentially, a secondary crime scene location. The main area has been sealed off by the police and the interns have been relocated to the other side of the manor house.

_We'll be sneaking into the forbidden area._

Greg is worried because he's faced with two overly eager kids. In our current ages we can't defend ourselves as well.

_He forgets we keep our life experiences upon our sleeves._

_**.**_


	34. Chapter 34

_**. Part Three .**_

Holding in a yawn, I mumble tiredly: 'We need to keep awake. It's still too early to explore the house. There are plenty of caretakers around.'

We've just been shown to a small room, with a small (locked) window, a bunk-bed and a rug on the floor as the main features. The walls are painted in a sickly yellow, supposedly joyous. Only a small cabinet at a corner holds some promise to me, as it reveals a selection of worn-out board games and books.

'Wanna play, Sherlock?' I ask as I'm taking one of the games out.

For the first time ever he shrugs to a board game. He's trying so hard to keep being the adult in charge that he's actually acting very unlike the adult he usually is. _The old Sherlock would have been on board in no time._

Then again his mind is still in the case, as he stands immobile, seating with his legs crossed, on the rug.

_Good to see that he can still access his Mind Palace._

_I wonder what he keeps in there._

Bringing over the game, I sit in front of him anyway. _I can always pretend he's playing with me._

It takes half-an-hour for Sherlock to finally stir. _Must have been a quick check-through of the Mind Palace._ He's looking all around, then humming in approval. Finally he notices the game.

'Why are you playing Operation, John? You're a doctor, you don't need educational aids to stimulate your intellectual pursuits.'

I frown. 'That's not what these are for. They're for fun and to play pretend.'

'You're pretending to be a doctor, doctor Watson.'

'I'm five years old', I insist, happily. I can see he remains clueless. 'Fine', I give in. 'Wanna play Cluedo?'

'The victim did it', he states with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

'No, Sherlock!' I start with a sigh. I know he's winding me up now. Maybe he should play alone. 'Wanna play the violin? We can try to find one.'

He looks down on his left hand. It's the hand of a five year old child. Small and more clumsy.

_He looks sad now, because he can't play the violin._ My bad, I'm sorry.

'Wanna play forts and castles?' I try again.

He finally smiles, from cheek to cheek. I giggle in delight.

'John, the bottom of the bunk-bed is your fort. I'm a grand dragon, here to attack it!'

He even helps me put up a fortified wall from a draping blanket.

'Go away, you big dragon!'

'Never!'

'I dare you to try to come in, dragon Sherlock!'

_**.**_

I wake up all of a sudden, alert and tense - not even my childhood stage can completely wipe out the army reflexes. On the bottom bunker Sherlock is kicking and struggling with his blanket, still sleep. _He's having a bad dream._ I hurry down the bunk-bed ladder to his side to wake him up. _It's okay, Sherlock. They're just dreams, they can't hurt you._

Sherlock wakes up with a startle as he's pushing me away madly. I fall back on the floor on my back, stunned and scared.

'Sherlock, it's me, John! Don't you remember me?'

He focuses on me with a terrified look on his aqua green eyes. He's holing me away, his child hands shaking as he grabs hold of my shirt, like he'd never let go. _I'm here, Sherlock. _Finally he nods, to let me know he remembers me. Still he won't talk.

'It was just a bad dream, Sherlock. Whatever it is, it can't hurt you anymore.'

'It will come back', he confides in a whisper. _I know, it always does._

I finally realise he must have suffered with frequent nightmares as a kid. I guess it helps explain how he's always been so supportive of mine.

'Come on, Sherlock. It's still early. We can go and explore the manor like we were supposed to.'

He nods, not very enthusiastically. 'What happened? Did we fall asleep?'

I nod. Our small bodies couldn't take it anymore. And now I'm hungry, and so must be Sherlock.

'We need to find the kitchen in this place', I tell him.

'I can get the cookies out of the packet', he declares at once. Lesson learnt, he knows how to prepare half a breakfast and he's proud of it.

_**.**_

It reminds me of old castles and magic spaces, like a haunted house all primed up to appear modern and bright, still not quite able to disguise its ghosts. Or maybe I'm letting my child's imagination wander away. I glance at Sherlock, by my side as we furtively roam the desert hallways. _We're the ghosts here_, I realise and try hard to swallow a giggle.

Still Sherlock won't understand me. But this time he can't help but giggle along.

_We can't giggle, we'll get caught!_

'What's the plan, Sherlock?' I ask of him, trying hard to sober up.

'We're going to visit the secondary crime scene, John.'

'That's the place where the body was left. We've been there before, Sherlock.'

'Not as children.'

'You think that kids can spot something new in there? The forensic team was there, analysing it from top to bottom.'

'And still they found no trace of how the victim's body got dragged inside the institution without being seen by any of the staff or the youth.'

I shrug, _fine_. It's not like we'll find it remotely scary. I'm an army doctor and he's a detective. We can handle our own.

Finally we come across a long hallway, with wooden paneled walls, portraits of Victorian age people hanging on either side and a couple of metal full body armors at the end of it. My child's eyes are immediately drawn to the sword, shiny, heavy and blunt.

I wish Sherlock and I could play with it.

Sherlock must have read my mind because he pushes me along before I get lost in my imagination.

We cross one of the last doors, the only one with the police tape over it. We duck under the tape so not to disturb it, after Sherlock efficiently picks the lock with a paper clip.

The whole room is dark and the smell is unpleasant. _Crime scenes hardly ever smell nice anyway._ Only a gloomy stain on the oak floor remains at this point of what the police as called on to see.

'One of the best locked room mysteries I've ever come across, John', Sherlock tells me, delighted. He even clasps his hands in front of him, excited. 'Oh, it's Christmas!'

I roll my eyes. _Same old Sherlock._

He takes out his small magnifying lenses and for the second time he's minutely investigating every detail of the room. I just take a seat on one of the chairs, my feet won't even reach the ground at my current height. No matter, I just move them around, kicking the air.

'John?'

'Hm?' he startles me.

'You were humming again. This time I think you were singing.'

_Oh._ Maybe. 'So?'

'We're not supposed to be here, remember that?'

I shrug, bored, and continue to look all around the room. He ignores my impatience. _This is going to take all night._ I get up and walk around the room, aimlessly. Here and there I pick up something to have a closer look. _See, I can play detective too, Sherlock!_

As I'm moving a heavy copper and enamel statuette, suddenly there's a loud clicking sound in the room. Sherlock and I freeze at once, staring at each other.

'Sorry, Sherlock', _I promise I'll keep quiet._

'Do it again!' he demands hastily. I realise he's onto something. I obey.

A second mechanical clicking sound and all of a sudden the whole back panel on the inside of the fireplace is moving, sliding sideways, giving way into a dark open space.

'It's a secret passage!' I realise out loud. Sherlock shushes me at once.

'Of course it is. That's how the victim's body was transported here from the crime scene. This is what the police couldn't find. This path is where we'll find the evidence of the true killer, John!'

I look over at the dark tunnel on the wall. _Don't feel much like getting in there. _There could be spiders, and mice, and... _With a smile I realise I want to get in. I want to catch a spider and take it home in my pocket._

'Let's go, Sherlock!' I grab him by his wrist and push him along.

Soon he lets go of his earlier reservations and I see his natural curiosity bursting along. Being a detective is in his blood from childhood.

He hardly has the time to grab hold of a candlestick and a pack of matches from the mantle piece before we enter the tunnel. The flickering light of the candle is not nearly enough to make out the rough edges of the walls and ceiling.

'There!' he points out to the top. There are small ventilation grids in the wall.

'How come we didn't see that before?'

'Must be behind the paintings on the hallway.'

'And those armors', I remember. He hums in agreement.

We're heading back from the secondary crime scene location that Scotland Yard has sealed off, heading to the entering point of the murderer's path. Soon we should come across evidence of who did it.

_It's like a living game of Cluedo._

_And the victim didn't do it, Sherlock, see?_

'Hurry, John!' he tells me.

'Why?'

He shrugs. It's just excitement, I gather.

Soon we come up against a wood panel, much alike the first. _This is it._

In natural agreement we put down the candlestick and we both jam our small bodies against the wood. 'On three, John. One... Two... Three!'

It gives in suddenly. I can still collect myself, Sherlock finds himself rolling across the floor inside the next room. I look around eagerly. I know this place. _It's director Chandler's office._

_And we're not alone._

The man himself gets up briskly from behind his desk, a wild look distorting his features. _He knows we know his secret. He's a murderer and he'll stop at nothing._

I'm still quite hidden inside the fireplace. Sherlock is getting up from the floor and brushing away invisible dust off his clothes.

'Evening!' he says, in his most grown-uppish way.

'You are too meddling for your own good, boy', he pronounces darkly, approaching Sherlock slowly.

_I won't let him hurt Sherlock!_ I look all around, desperately searching for some sort of advantage that may allow me to undermine the giant dangerous man that wants to hurt my best friend. And there, at a corner, there's a first aid kit. It attracts me with a wonderful sense of familiarity and safety. I just need to cross the room before he gets me. Luckily, I'm just a kid these days...

In a mad dash I sprint across the room. Chandler turns abruptly, surprised to find me when he meant to grab Sherlock. He holds out his hands and misses me by a mere inch. By now I'm diving on the floor, the first aid kit on my arms, securely hugged.

'You'll need that when I'm done with you' he promises darkly. I flinch at the nasty sound of his words.

My left hand is roaming the contents of the kit, desperately. All the while he's coming down over me again.

'John!' Sherlock calls out desperately, even if he knows there is nothing he can do for me. Not at this age.

I take Sherlock's offered moment of distraction to swing my left hand against Chandler's leg, an epi pen in my hand that I stab in him.

It will act immediately, but not before he swings his arm on me, viciously. I'm slammed back, hitting the wall hard, my head is pounded against the hard surface like a rubber ball. I can hear the sound it makes. As I'm sliding down the wall, so is our giant enemy falling to the ground due to the dangerous rush of adrenaline from the epi pen. _Got You!_

'_John!_' Sherlock screams from the top of his lungs, rushing towards me, watery eyes, shocked expression, blatantly ignoring the danger of the man separating us. It's the last thing I see before it all turns dark.

_**.**_

The first thing that comes back is sound. Then pain. Muffled pain under the annoying sound of intermittent beeping from some sort of machine. It's speeding up now.

_It sounds oddly familiar._

'John?'

Well, that isn't familiar at all. Sure enough it's my name, but I don't recognise the voice behind it.

'He's coming around, Sherlock, see?'

That sounds like Lestrade, I realise, as I open my eyes. _It's too bright._

Some well-intended mind-reading generous soul turns off the light in the nightstand by the bed's side. I turn my gaze to see a small hand, Sherlock's hand. And sure enough there he is, responsibly sitting on a chair by Greg's side, staring attentively to me.

'Thanks', I mutter, still feeling sleepy and in a pasty voice. 'Where-?'

Sherlock won't let me finish and answers immediately: 'Hospital, you're in a hospital, John. You've suffered a-' Words fail him and he points to his own head to make the point come across. _I get it, Sherlock._

'Concussion', Greg adds helpfully to Sherlock and me. 'You were very lucky, John. Could have been very worse. I shouldn't have left the two of you alone.'

Sherlock purses his lips thin, in much less union than he was showing before to our friend and only adult around. 'We've solved your case, Lestrade. We did the Yard's job.'

'Yeah', Greg maintains his ground, 'but at what cost? You should have left before.'

Sherlock lowers his gaze in aceptance. I feel the need to defend: 'I'm fine, guys, don't worry about me.'

'Well, that sounds a lot like the old John', Greg says to lighten the mood. 'Now you've solved the case, how much longer will you remain as kids?'

Sherlock states, confident: 'We'll transform during the night. Tomorrow morning we'll be back to our adult selves.'

'If we had faced Chandler as adults I'd have shown him, trying to hurt Sherlock...' I say at once.

'I'd say you've shown him in any case', Greg notices. 'Adrenaline shot. The paramedics had to work on him as well.'

Sherlock adds, responsibly: 'I made sure they didn't waste any effort on him instead of John.'

We share a complicity look. 'I'm sorry I scared you, Sherlock.'

He nods, seriously. 'I forgive you, John. And... I... I'm sorry too' he adds with great difficulty, due to our audience. I pull him close on a tight hug.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: Actually, there's one more part after this one. Can anyone guess the plot twist? It was unnecessary, and self-indulgent in nature, but somehow it felt right. Still blaming it on this x-mas season. -csf_


	35. Chapter 35

_A/N: Wrote part of this extra right at the beginning, before the story was ready. Somehow I couldn't let go of this idea.  
More to the point, yes, this is finally the last part. –csf_

* * *

_**. Part Four / Last Part .**_

I wake up with a smile on my face. This is me being a kid for another day. I guess Sherlock was wrong after all. This is not transformation day. _I need to go downstairs and wake him up, and tell him the news._

I race myself downstairs - trying to break my own personal record - before coming to a halt in front of Sherlock's room. I don't even bother to knock. Kids don't knock on each other's doors. I push it open wide and lean over to the bed to shake Sherlock awake.

His eyes are already open, as he stares back at me in shock. As he's faced with five years old John I'm facing back full grown Sherlock, lazily staying in bed late.

I find myself stepping back slowly.

_He transformed; I didn't._

Tears come to my eyes, for I can't explain this. And judging by the look on Sherlock's adult face, neither can he. It feels scary to see Sherlock at a loss about my age status.

But everything is alright, right?

'Let's go get you some breakfast, John', Sherlock says at last, pushing his covers away. _Yes, he's back at being a tall adult_, I realise as he swings his legs to the ground.

As he's incentivising me along the kitchen he's already texting fast on his phone.

_I'm not worried, I feel brave. Sherlock always takes care of me when I'm little._

_**.**_

I hear them talk behind closed doors, as I sit alone in the kitchen with my breakfast. They don't know I'm listening. I've realised they are talking about me. Especially about me still being a kid. They don't want to tell me, but I know; _I may stay like this forever._

Sherlock will get used to a new type of sidekick.

I climb up the chair to get the skull out of the cabinet, next to the teapot, where I had put it away, tidily. I want to count Mr Skull's molars.

I wonder if in time I'll start forgetting medicine, in order to better become this five years old child. I also wonder if I'll ever become six.

'Lestrade, he's just a kid!' I hear Sherlock protest. He sounds really annoyed. That gets my full attention. They are still discussing me. _Four, five, six..._

'Well you fed him the serum, Sherlock!'

'I can't be expected to hang around with a five year old!'

_That's not a molar. I'm still a doctor, I know this. Again. One, two, three..._

'Not "hang around", Sherlock. "Care for". He trusts you like I've never seen him trust anyone else, as a child or as an adult.'

I'm biting back tears. I eagerly wait for Sherlock's answer. It comes out cold and detached:

'Not my job, inspector.'

_Oh._

I sniff unwanted tears back. I thought it was okay. I thought I could stay with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. _I thought I had a home._

_I'm trouble._

Sherlock doesn't want me here, clearly; I realise in an effort to channel the rational adult my emotions chase away. I'd get in the way of his experiments, and his cases. He's embarrassed of me now.

_I need to go._

_Now._

I can leave before they notice. That will be better for everyone around.

_**.**_

I rush upstairs to my room in the quickest footsteps I can do. Due to my army training I can be furtive and I pass the landing outside the living room without them noticing me. What I need now is to gather some essentials and leave.

_I'm running away._

_This is not my home._

It's going to be the best for everyone around. Mrs H will be able to sleep in late, not to mention the stairs to 221B and her hip. Sherlock will be freed from his burden. He might even miss me once in a while. Even if he does, I'll never come back.

_I know he won't miss me, not really._

'Sherlock, where's John?' I hear Greg ask downstairs, slightly panicky. Must have gone into the kitchen then.

_I'm not a baby, Greg._

'He's probably playing in his room', the detective dismisses at once. 'He can take care of himself.'

_Damn right I can!_

'Sherlock, I think he heard us talking, get it?'

_Oh, no, they're onto me._ One way out now. I grab the guillotine window and force it open. The cold air assaults me. I won't let it stop me. I'm not scared. I have a plan.

I wouldn't have lived all those months in Baker Street after returning from the war front without assuring I had some sort of emergency escape route. The military training was so fresh on me as an instinctive answer. In those first nights riddled with nightmares it was the assurance that I could take off to save my life at anytime that kept me sane. _And allowed me to settle down again._

_I thought we were friends, Sherlock. It's your loss now._

I've climbed over the bed and the nightstand. I grab onto the curtains to get my footing on the sloped roofing outside. A few steps away is the neighbours' roof, and then a small patio bellow on the next house. The patio is connected to the ground floor by a circular cast iron staircase that acts as a fire escape, and beyond that there is me, free on the back alleys behind Baker Street. The ones Sherlock and I took advantage off in so many of our cases.

I put a foot out of the window, appreciating the rush of excitement it brings me. It'll be a bit harder for someone with my current (_permanent now_) height, but I possess a flexibility now that I don't have in the later years, I mean, three days ago. That is...

_Age travelling can be confusing_, I gather, as I slide across the next door's roof.

_**.**_

I don't know what brought me here, to an empty stretch of train tracks, kicking viciously the oddest pebbles in my way. No place for a five year old runaway. _I'm no ordinary five year old._ I'm an adult on the inside and I should be more pondered and understanding. Sherlock and I solved the case, he doesn't need me anymore. He's back to his old reality, to new cases. I'm the one that is unfortunately stuck. Can't go back to the starting point - _wherever that was in this fluid timescale._

I'm stuck as a kid and I thought it was okay. A happy kid, that's what I was when I had a friend and a home. Not anymore.

I've been through this before. I belong nowhere. It only means I have more options in the open, right?

I'm a five year old runaway with no money in his pocket. I have other skills, skills that I remember from adulthood, to keep me safe. Even though I can't work for food and shelter, I know which berries are edible and how to build shelter in a ditch.

I can't live of berries and it rains too much in England.

I'm in as much trouble here as I was with Sherlock, only here I don't have to be a burden upon the greatest mind of the century. Sherlock is most definitely better off without me.

That's what he told Greg.

_If he really cared for me he would have found me by now._

I'm not scared, though. Trouble can come and find me, I'll take care of myself.

_**.**_

Night has fallen. It's been six hours now. Almost one hour since I found an old train carriage rusting away in a side track, marred with painted name tags and insults. The insides are bare and were stripped out, and this is where I've laid out some twigs and dried up branches to set them on fire. _Creating fire is a basic life skill they teach us in the army._

The warm air is too fast to dissipate through the broken glass windows.

I've got some misshaped wild apples and some berries, that will do for the night. I have brought along a metal foil blanket I borrowed out of 221B's first aid kit. Enough to keep me warm. _It also makes me feel like an astronaut in a space ship. _

I mustn't think like that. I'm not a child anymore. A child has a home. I'm all alone and I'll take care of myself.

I also brought Mr Skull, even if Sherlock is sure to miss him. At least like this I have someone to talk to, and play.

_I can tell him my story and Mr Skull can tell me his till I fall asleep._

_**.**_

I wake up to the distinctive sound of Sherlock's voice, calling my name. He sounds distressed. I woke up in full alertness, ready to go to his rescue.

_He doesn't need me_, I remember painfully, bringing tears to my eyes.

I need to stay quiet. If he were to find me, he'd call me stubborn, he'd tell me it's been stupid of me to have chosen such an obvious hideout, the right thing to do was leave it unused and take up guard further back. That way it'd work as a calling card for Sherlock, giving me enough time to bail out unseen.

Last night I must have forgotten my most basic army training.

_It's like I wanted to be found._

**_._**

Only one way out now.

I need to run.

I'm running away again, this time quite literally.

In a mad dash I'm exiting the old train composition through the back. My feet tap the floor fast and even. On my hands my few treasures - the foil blanket of an astronaut, the skull from the mantle piece, a couple of wild apples. It's making it harder to run and I'm not surprised when an apple rolls off my embrace. _Leave it, John._

I'm still looking over my shoulder at the fallen apple when I collide against something huge, not too hard, that envelops me at once and grabs hold of me and my treasures.

I look at the weave pattern on a warm wool coat of the person holding me. _Oh no, it's Sherlock_ \- I know, even without looking up.

The second apple falls on the floor, followed by Mr Skull that rolls away slightly. If I wasn't so dismayed I'd have actually giggled at the sight.

_Let me go, Sherlock!_

Sherlock grabs me tighter as I squirm to get away. 'John, I'm sorry! There! I said it, isn't that enough already? You always forgive me, can't you forgive me this time?' I finally look up to his face. In his green eyes he looks truly sad, broken. For the first time, he doesn't seem embarrassed of apologising either. 'I'm so sorry, John', he repeats again, now he's got my full attention. 'I didn't mean to hurt you.'

'You just didn't want me', I tell him straight-forwardly, in a child-like honesty. 'I got it, Sherlock.'

He shakes his head, bouncing his curls from side to side. 'I wanted Greg to take care of you, it's different.'

I shake my head. _It's not different._ I try to make him let go of me. He sighs and without relenting he explains more patiently:

'Greg would take better care of you. As an adult I tricked you and turned you into a child. Then as a child I took you into danger. You ended up in the hospital. It was my fault. Greg would have done none of that. And he's really fond of you as well.'

Before I can say anything, a sharp pain stabs me in the chest, knocking the wind out of me.

'Sherlock, was this you?' I ask him in the middle of my confusion, crumbling down. I would have crashed to the ground if it wasn't for his steady embrace.

'Not me', he confides in a concerned whisper. 'John, you're transforming back', Sherlock tells me hat must be in plain sight for him.

_He still won't let go of me._

'You tricked me again!' I gasp, breathlessly.

'I haven't', he assures me, his voice cracking. 'I think the serum is running out in your system. Oh, of course, that's it!'

I let my forehead, too hot and damp, drop against his coat, as he carries on: 'John, the hospital! You were unconscious for hours! The low breathing and heart rate disaccelerated the degradation rate of the serum. That's why it took longer to wear off in you! Everything is going to be okay now, John!'

'Brilliant', I mumble, as I hug him in search of relief. He hugs me back, tightly.

I don't know if I'm angry with Sherlock still, or if it's the other way around. I don't really care. He's still the only one I can trust. It's all too much. 'Get the medics in here!' I hear him shoot out to Lestrade before I fall unconscious.

_**.**_

'Mycroft sends his best wishes, John.'

Sherlock's voice permeates my sleepy brain slowly. I'm warm, comfortable, and pain free. I decide to postpone that brave act of waking up and start the day. Sherlock isn't fooled for a second. His voice carries on: 'To me, Mycroft has sent a text. It states quite clearly that I owe him one. This must have been quite a clean-up. Firstly the paramedics that saw a child transform into an adult along an ambulance ride, then bribing specialists to keep quiet when you could have been the case study of their carriers, even the staff at this private room because we had to make sure you were okay now. You've been sleeping for way too long now.'

I hear his voice lower into a familiar tone when he adds: 'I need my blogger, John, you can't sleep forever.'

In a stronger, more detached voice he carries on: 'Mrs Hudson has dropped by, with some flowers. I told her to take the flowers away, you wouldn't really like them. She also brought some pancakes for the both of us, and if you don't open your eyes soon I'll have yours as well as mine.'

After a few seconds, he sighs. 'Greg Lestrade should be coming in soon. He's been phoning in every half-an-hour. He says I'd probably forget to tell him when you wake up. I told him you're already awake, it's the meds keeping you drowsy, but he won't believe me.'

He shifts uncomfortably on his chair, before he asks: 'Are you awake, John? Are you angry with me?'

Before I can muster an answer, I hear him get up from the chair, and the sound of a small lock being open. A few seconds later, the warm sound of violin strings reverberating melodically fills my cloudy spirit with a new clarity. I let that sound guide me through my haze as I latch onto it, following it like I've done so many other times.

I open my eyes slowly, blinking them to get used to the bright aseptic light in a small private room of a hospital.

Sherlock never stops playing, but as soon as his gaze crosses paths with mine a true genuine relieved smile splashes across his face. He keeps playing with the sensitivity of a true artist's soul, still drawing my attention as the grogginess abounds.

'I'm not angry, Sherlock', I tell him as soon as I can master a throaty voice. 'I can never stay angry at you long.'

He smirks to defend us from all the mushiness of the situation, yet his eyes shine with relief and genuine joy.

'When can I get out of here, Sherlock?'

He nods to the question I didn't voice out loud. 'Let's go home', he agrees.

'And you'll never turn me into a kid again?' I ask, for what it's worth.

'I, hm... It was important, John', he defends himself, flustered.

'Just drop it, Sherlock. Quit turning me - and you - into kids.'

'We solved a case, we saved lives, John.'

'You did that, not me', I correct Baker Street's genius detective.

'_Just drop it, John._ You were invaluable. I could have never made it alone.'

I frown. 'What do you mean "alone"? Turning only yourself into a five year old?'

He nods. That must have been the first plan. 'I knew you'd care for me. I even believed I could convince you into letting me work the case as I pleased...'

'Then why transform me?'

'You make the most fascinating child, John. I couldn't help myself. I know you'd have my back at any age.'

I nod. I always will. And so will Sherlock.

_**.**_


	36. Chapter 36

_A/N: This intertwines with an old one, posted as chapter 13 here, and one of my favorites. (Can hardly believe it's been these many already). Started writing this when I thought I wouldn't make it home for Christmas myself. I also wanted to write a very John-centred one, where Sherlock was the thin conducting thread and the plot resolution even before he had a dialogue line._

_As always, I'm definitely still not British, a Doctor, or in the Army. Therefore I apologise beforehand for all the inconsistencies in what I'll be typing bellow. (Oh trust me - there should be plenty.) -csf_

_Extra: Well, I'm realising that once again I've overdone myself lengthwise, so there'll be two parts to this story._

* * *

_**. Part One of Two .**_

'Captain! Captain Watson, sir!'

The lad comes running inside the operating theatre, overly excited, then does a halt as he remembers our surroundings. It's easy to forget we're in a war zone since it's been secure for the last few weeks, insurgents kept at bay, but always just a wink away. I look up from the needle and thread, as I'm suturing after a landmine at roadside came to surprise a Sargent, to the First Officer still staring intently at me. 'What?' I ask, less than patiently. After all, I've been dealing with a wave of incoming casualties for eight hours straight.

'Your replacement is here, Doc!'

I frown. It's a bad taste joke. The risk is too high and this province has been deemed to much of a liability. We're stranded, in a way. No new personnel, and those of us who were to return have been assigned for another couple of months. That means Christmas in Afghanistan.

_Better me than some of these brave men, with kids and families at home._ Besides, I know I'm needed here. _I'll always be needed here. The casualties keep on coming, I patch them up as best as I can, and send them back for more. There are days that I hate myself for that._

I can't rub the bridge of my nose because I'm wearing surgical gloves, and I stop myself just in time.

'Go get some rest, Chandler', I tell him caringly. He's just a lad, he's far too young to be here. _They all grow up too fast in here._

'Doc, I'm not kidding. You won the lottery!'

I freeze as I bandage my unconscious patient. That has become a code in our unit. Winning the lottery means landing the grand prize: going home without medical leave or in a body bag.

'What?' I ask, confused, as the Nurse takes over the patient's dressings.

'The aircraft, with the politicians, they just radioed us. They are coming here and they want you, sir!'

They are willing to breach the No Newcomers rule. 'Is anyone hurt in the aircraft?'

'No, sir. They want you. They've sent a replacement and all.'

Maybe I can have my Christmas miracle after all. 'What's his name?' I ask.

'Doctor Holmes.'

'What?'

'Doctor Sherlock Holmes, he asked to swap places with you, sir.'

_**.**_

I wake up startled from my nightmare - _what else can I call it?_ \- sweaty and shivering in my spring bed. The distant noises of fired ammunition and trucks rolling on dirt roads in long springy convoys grounds me again. _A part of me never left this place._ As a doctor I've been assigned a resting area in a small corner behind a folding curtain, conveniently located in the big medics tent. We've been stationed in Afghanistan for three months now, and we've just received note that our stay has been extended by the Royal Army Services. I really miss London now, closer to Christmas. _I miss a homely Baker Street, and a nice cup of sandless tea, and Sherlock playing the violin.I even miss my mad friend's craziness. It always kept me on my toes._

I came here with a mission from Mycroft Holmes. A further return, he even bent the rules to hand me the physical checks okay to return to active duty after my shoulder injury. He mentioned something about a promotion, and about Queen and Country. I gladly pass the first one, but I can't ignore the latter, as he knows very well.

_I'm a doctor_, I told him. _And a doctor you shall remain_, he assured me, over-selling his politeness act as usual.

_How could I say No?_

Sherlock asked me to. I tried explaining. You just don't stop being a soldier or a doctor. It's part of me as much as my name or my age.

He seemed incredulous, speechless, as he stared on blankly at me. Then for a single glimpse of a moment, he looked hurt. I couldn't tell if he felt betrayed by me, as if I was betraying my allegiance to Baker Street and the Work. Before I could understand, he walked off.

Later I heard he had gone to Mycroft.

I waited in Baker Street for his return. I waited forty-seven out of the forty-eight hours I had before departing on my mission. I remember I was siting on the old run-down red armchair when Mycroft's instructions arrived by special messenger. I quite remember it was sweet Mrs Hudson that bought me a toothbrush and other toiletries to pack, as I insisted on not missing Sherlock's return. He never picked up any of my calls till his phone's battery ran down. Little after, so did mine.

Uniform on, airplane tickets, passport and dog tags in my pocket, I took a cab away from Baker Street, not before one last careful look about in the street.

I was really worried about Sherlock now, but he had made his position quite clear. _So had I._

'Where to, soldier?' the cabbie asked me in fake good humor.

'Afghanistan', I responded, distracted, still looking out of the window.

'Can't take you that far.'

I smirk, he really can't. This is something I need to do on my own.

'London Stansted Airport, then. The British Government will take care of the rest', I assured the cab driver.

_**.**_

Soldiers learn to make do with what they've got. In our current situation we don't have turkey or Christmas pudding, we definitely don't have snow or a white Christmas scenery. Our plastic tree is mediocre and bonsai-sized at best. Some of the guys have placed decorations in it, then there was a small row (typical of confined spaces behaviour; I put a stop at that immediately), in the end we decided to hang the dog tags for the ones in our unit that served our country and then managed to go back home. What better way then to symbolise our hope and materialise the spirit of the season?

And since we're too far away from our loved ones someone thought about the usual poker game.

I guess it made us all very naughty and that's why Santa won't be coming around.

We're playing cards for beans, with Chandler's casino chips. He looks nervous behind his deck of cards as it is. And I haven't even mentioned my silly dream and how he had been the bearer of wanted news (with an evil twist). Seemed unfair to bring it up. He's a good man, he'll go far provided he endures this six months tour of his. And that he looses this tell of blinking his eyes when he's bluffing.

'I'm calling it, Chandler.'

All eyes are on him. Some are cheering on, others are just looking for a distraction from one of the warmest nights here. Either way, Chandler keeps on blinking.

Finally he lowers his cards, defeated. I win, he was bluffing all along.

'Nice try, Chandler.'

'How did you know, Doc?'

'If I told you then how was I to get a plate full of beans?' I distract him.

'You're too used to this', he protests, halfheartedly. Still it rings true in my mind.

Too used to bluffing, to facing opponents and to try and deduce them like Sherlock did.

'Come on, Doc!' Someone elbows me to get me going. I realise they haven't seen my cards yet. I throw them on the table as I'm already getting up, spoiled mood. The whole thing got me thinking about London again.

I wonder if it's snowing there. Maybe Mrs Hudson is making mulled wine. I wonder if Sherlock will care to decorate 221B. And Mary - I haven't a clue how she's doing. Mycroft had a mission for her as well. She took hers even before I took mine.

Not that the timescale matters. She would have known my answer all along.

In a few lost steps I've reached the entrance of the First Officer's tent. The dark sky outside always amazes me. Over the pitch dark desert the lights of the hundreds of stars seem so bright and pure.

I look over my shoulder to the guys resuming the poker game. They are on a roll and don't find anything amiss in my absence.

If I were to walk off, through the desert, and the cities, and the water, and other lands, I'd never stop till I reached London. And the guys behind me wouldn't even notice.

I shouldn't think like this. It's a bit not good.

I've done my mission for Mycroft. He'll send someone for me as soon as he can.

He wouldn't have forgotten me, right?

...

_Sherlock wouldn't have let that happen, in any case._

**.**


	37. Chapter 37

_A/N:__ I know close to nothing about the army (as it's fairly obvious). As always, all the mistakes are on me, and come with no bad intentions. __-csf_

* * *

_**. Part Two of Two .**_

Another night with casualties flooding the compound. I haste to triage them, and make sure I can fight for each and everyone of them. Our stronghold is getting stronger, that's the word on the ground. One more small pocket of resistance and we'll have the area secured again. That means opening the gates, resuming dialogue with the locals, bringing in fresh supplies of medicines and ammunition, allowing some of us to be dismissed back home.

That's the hope we hang on to.

The new confrontation has put on hold the visit of the Politicians - as we call any non-military guest that wanders off to this territory. They weren't even heading this way, but to a neighbouring base further down south, so it hardly matters, other than for the hope of some guys in here that postal service may get tossed overboard the aircraft. That is to say: delivered.

I look over at the Nurse, a nice fellow that has just collapsed on a nearby spring bed. Sure it's against the regulations to take a nap on an empty patient's bed. But I can tell by the strain on his face, the exhaustion on every line, that it's best to let him be a fake patient resting for the time being, before he becomes a real one. It's also against the regulations but I'm handling the last routine checks on my own. Mostly it's about keeping a close check on the work already performed, and signaling the unstable cases, where surprises might turn up.

I'm walking about, checking and registering vitals and other data when I first start hearing the distinct sound of heavy blades crossing the air. A helicopter? No, too much noise. Other blades, synchronised with the first. A cargo aircraft, then.

_The politicians._

_The mail delivery._

As soon as it comes and strengthens, the sound then diverts and dies off in the end.

_**.**_

Another night in the desert. It's finally colder now the sun isn't reflecting it's powerful glow in every direction on the overheated sand all around.

I find myself musing on how different this sand smells from the one I saw at the beach as a kid.

No salt water here either.

I turn away from the entrance of the medics tent where I had come to lose myself in my thoughts. I rather go and turn the radio on. There are news reports on rotation, sad romantic songs and plenty of Christmas jingles to chose from.

I'll take my chance with the army news.

_A stronghold of insurgent activity has been dismantled from the inside as a talented expert - not yet named by the intel reports - has been brought in to assess the situation. The detection of minute leads and the fast interpretation of overheard conversations while undercover has enabled this expert to - almost single-handedly - remove the seclusion status of the province- _

Uproar and cheering loudly prevents me to hear anymore. There's hardly any need. I can tell by my mates that we are now free again.

Some lone hero has come to rescue us.

_I wonder what took him so long..._

'Did you hear that, Doc?'

I shush Chandler's juvenile enthusiasm. There are patients on recovery here. He quiets down with a guilty look, but he never loses his faithful smile of his. 'That means you'll be going home, Doc!'

'I wan the lottery?' The realisation is dawning on me.

_It's been so long it doesn't feel true. As if it couldn't ever be possible._

_I'll only believe it when I'm back in London._

'Then I'm not sure you'll be needing this!' Chandler waves a little package in the air. Even from far I recognise the characteristic handwriting of Sherlock Holmes.

_It's the first time in weeks he's contacted me._

_Not even after my success in Mycroft's mission. Or after I got stranded in this place._

I take the package in my hands, I realise they are shaking minutely in emotion. It's like I don't want to open it, tear it, taint it, to get to the inside. It's far too precious as it is.

Somewhere in London, in what feels like a whole different world, Sherlock has remembered his old sidekick.

_It's always the little things that get to you_, I realise, as I sniff back unwanted emotionalism.

_I'm an army Captain, for crying out loud!_

'Aren't you going to open it, sir?'

I frown to let Chandler know to mind his business. He's far too young and none too wise so he insists: 'You don't have much time to open it, Doc. I heard you are on the list home tomorrow!'

I shiver, maybe because I'm so tired. I still need to ask:

'Are they sending someone to replace me?'

'Already have. He's been in the neighbouring camp for the last month, waiting to be transferred. Doctor Chandler, he's called, just like me. I mean, I'm no doctor, but I'm Chandler. Still, I don't think he'll be as nice as you... Or as good in poker. Maybe I'll start winning something for a change.'

I smile like him, letting a small sigh of relief escape me.

_London, here I come._

_I need to pack my stuff._

**_._**

I'm already on a convoy of trucks, heading to the nearest safe airbase, when I take out Sherlock's package again, still sealed and mysterious. I marvel at the name there: _John H. Watson_. As an afterthought he's added _Captain and Doctor_ after it.

_And "blogger" if he'll let me._

I finally open the package. Only two items inside. A notebook (unused) and a pen.

I smile to myself. I guess that settles it. He needs a blogger after all.

I may prefer the computer. Typing my texts after writing them by hand takes forever.

_**.**_

Sherlock surprises me at the airport, on a cab he either rented or borrowed.

Three months, eleven days I spent there, waiting to return.

As he drives us home through the Christmas lit streets I marvel at it's freshness as I take it in through the windows. Sherlock won't disturb my abstraction. He seems to know instinctively that it's natural. _Part of me stayed behind in the desert once again._

'Not many stars in the sky here', Sherlock tells me. _He has no idea._

'Plenty of lights from the shops, and streetlamps and cars. All full of lights during in the day just the same. Sun's not so bright. You really don't get the same tan around here.' I smile, to remind him of his first deductions of me in St Bart's. _Afghanistan or Iraq? _Afghanistan, yet again.

'True', he smirks. I lower my gaze to Sherlock's hand as he shifts gears in the cab. Oddly enough I find a tan mark in his wrist.

'Have you been sunbathing?'

'_Just drop it, John_', he turns sensitive all of a sudden. I chuckle. Sherlock likes to keep himself mysterious. Maybe one day he'll tell me where he's been that got him tanned and sporting a mark of sunscreen and sand in his neck. Or even how he managed to post a package to me to Afghanistan without it being stamped by any service. It's almost as if he's been to-

I shiver, staring hard at my friend. _He wouldn't, would he?_ Be the unknown hero we're all thankful for?

No, of course not. That's just silly. Sherlock Holmes is a hero, sure, but I'm just his blogger.

He's offering me stay at Baker Street, that's enough for me to be thankful for at this time of the year. It's a full return home.

**.**


	38. Chapter 38

_A/N - __Still not__: British, a doctor, or anything other than myself__. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'I thought you'd pass this one up, John.'

That's the first thing Greg Lestrade told me and Sherlock upon our arrival at this Hospital. I gave him a strained smile and a nod, I could feel Sherlock's piercing gaze stuck on me as he turned his neck so fast it could have whip-lashed him. From that moment on, after Greg's inconfidence, Sherlock's gaze would never stray away from me for longer than a couple of seconds. His whole attention caught on me and the place where I had come to, as a patient, upon being evacuated home from Afghanistan.

I unite my hands behind my back and pace slowly by the DI and detective's side.

_I know this place like the back of my hand._

'Reception's this way, guys', Greg directs us.

_They fixed me as much as they could._

_Not nearly enough._

'Second floor. That's where our suspect has been lodged. Are you sure this is important, Sherlock?'

_I remember it as if it were yesterday._

'Our suspect must have forged a bond with one of the doctors in here', Sherlock assures us impatiently. 'That's how he managed to obtain the confidential information on our victim. It's the only solution that fits!'

'Or someone sneaked in, in the middle of the night, when the shifts change and the nurses are watching rerun episodes of Coronation Street', I mutter, absent-mindedly. I'm startled as they both stare openly at me. I even need to rewind my words and thought process. 'Oh, yeah, it's easy enough, guys.'

Greg points out: 'This is supposed to be a secured location, John. Are you sure?' Sherlock's already got his case-solved smug smirk on.

'I'm sure. I had time to study this place, once before.'

Sherlock's frowning now. 'It wasn't cigarettes, you don't smoke. Or drinking, it'd have messed up your meds and you're too knowledgeable of the interactions to let it happen. It wasn't friends because you were all alone when you came back to London. Sure you had friends, but you wouldn't risk your health to be with any of them, they weren't that close, you had no one to take you in, that's why you were looking for a flatmate... Harry, your sister. You were worried about her. How many times did you sneak out of here to check up on her, to make sure she made it home safely after a night of binge drinking, John?'

Greg is staring at both of us, now, back and forth, as if watching a tennis match.

I square my shoulders. 'Maybe a couple of times', I downplay it, responding against my will.

_Match point for Sherlock._

'Will you show us, John?' Greg resumes.

I finally look straight at him. 'Yeah, sure... What else do you need? Confidential patient files cabinet? Restricted areas where the more controlled medication is stored? Physical therapy ward? Well, that last one isn't necessarily a secret or difficult to access. Everyone here knows it only too well.'

'John, you don't need to be here if you don't want to.'

I realise I may have spoken too roughly to Greg. Didn't really mean to.

'Actually, I do need to be here', I understand at this moment. 'Sorry about that.'

'No worries, mate. Just... We're glad you're here with us now, okay?' With a couple of embarrassed small pats on my shoulder _(wrong shoulder, Greg!)_ he carries on to Sherlock: 'In this case, I could be right all along, and the brother did it. He has the medical knowledge too.'

Sherlock hums in distracted agreement. Greg insists: 'He could have been an intern in here, I guess. Ever heard of a Chandler, John? A physical therapist, possibly. You must have met quite a few in here.'

Refocusing, I strain my memory. 'Tall guy, blond, heavy, beady eyes?' I recall. Both Sherlock and Greg nod. Again I'm feeling distracted as I take notice of a couple of patients in wheel chairs down the hallway behind my friends. _I remember those days. With both my leg and my shoulder giving me hell._

Sherlock glances over his shoulder, as Greg is fast taking notes on a pocket notebook.

'And you're sure he could have sneaked back in without being noticed?'

I nod, confidently. _I've done it enough times, haven't I?_

Sherlock asks, loud and impatient: 'Can we finally see his room so I can show you where he hid the murder weapon, detective inspector?'

'You don't know where he hid the weapon, Sherlock.'

'I'll know within two minutes in the room, won't I?' he alleges, too smugly.

_All the while his attention is still stuck on me._

'So, who dunnit?' I ask, just to disengage Sherlock of studying me. 'The patient or the therapist?'

'Both. Do catch up, John!' Sherlock snaps back.

I shrug and follow the two detectives into the second floor's ward. _I quite remember this place._ Not all the comforts in here - after a war zone - could make me call it a home.

_Not like Baker Street was to me, shortly after._

_Still is._

'Here! See, Lestrade!'

Sherlock's enthusiastic call brings me back to reality all of a sudden. He's just found the murder weapon - a long thin blade - hidden in a hollow bed pole by using an earth magnet to suck it out. Very ingenious. Triumphant, he turns to me like a kid who has just won an icecream, and I tell him, sincerely: 'Amazing, Sherlock.'

Noncommittally he defends in an unusual _modesty:_ 'Commonplace, John.'

'Shall we get out of here?' I ask them. 'We can sneak out like I did in the old days.' They agree at once.

_One last time._

A nurse calling buzzer startles me, from another ward. I lose myself in the sound. _I've been on both sides of it, as a doctor and as a patient. Perhaps I should have seen it coming. Only I never did._

Greg is leading the way according to my directions, Sherlock has fallen behind for once, coming closer to me. His strides are matching mine, as he fakes an interest in the rooms we walk by. He's not fooling me for a second. I'm still his puzzle, born of some morbid curiosity perhaps, I've been the puzzle ever since Greg opened his big mouth...

'_Just drop it, John'_, he whispers within earshot. 'It'll never happen again. I've got your back and you've got mine. '

I stare at my friend, stunned by his mind-reading, even a bit scared by it.

'Am I that obvious?'

My friend smiles apologetically. 'Well, I'm supposed to be a great detective', he offers me a way out. I smile, much more confidently. 'That's what my invaluable blogger keeps posting.'

_**.**_


	39. Chapter 39

_A/N: I know I've been away (how could I not know), but I have been working on this collection on and off. Had a long post-holiday travel that floored me, during which time I had the chance to catch up with the last episode of the radio comedy Cabin Pressure. The reason I mention this is that half-asleep from exhaustion I had a spooky pick-me-up moment when I suddenly heard the line "just drop it" (from BC, not as Sherlock and not to John). I would have dropped something myself, had I been holding anything. It half-freaked me out. Okay, okay, it did fully freaked me out. I took off my headphones and looked all around to the other passengers in paranoid suspicion. I w__as wide awake after that._

_That aside, for alI the kind words I had for my child-John pieces, I hope I can honour them in a comeback. I enjoyed them a lot from a writer's point of view. John's child giggles make me smile every time, silly me._

_Anyway, it's been soothing to wash away the fright. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part One .**_

I wake up with a strange feeling of unrest, some sort of premonition that I immediately shake off, being a man of medicine. My old room in Baker Street never had this sort of effect on me before. A stay over for the weekend to help my friend with his unique cases, no reason for me to be like this.

Could be because Sherlock and I ended up having a tense argumentation last night. He has a couple of baffling cases that got his usually controlled demeanor on edge. Nothing that I'm not used to. I confiscated the Persian slipper and its contents. He pretended not to care as he got up briskly from his microscope stating that we need to be kids again.

Last time he poisoned us both to turn us into five year olds was a month ago, if that much. _Not long enough to make me forget that he promised he'd never do it again to me._

Yes, yesterday that was all that he thought about. His case trumped any common sense.

Along with our bodies, our emotions also get affected by this serum he's got hold of. We conserve our memories inside our five year old selves. How we actually managed to solve cases is beyond me and all Sherlock's merit.

_I have no idea why he keeps choosing that age either. _I assume he must have enjoyed being a pre-schooler. Knowing Sherlock he must have been quite the gifted child. Maths, writing and shoelaces posed no trouble for him whatsoever. I can't quite say the same for me. I was a regular happy non-genius kid myself.

Slowly I drift back to sleep, after rubbing my shoulder scar absentmindedly all this while. The cold weather has been getting to it, lately.

_**.**_

I wake up startled yet again, not even a couple of hours later. Someone is roughly trying to shake me awake. The touch is gentle, however insistent, and I find myself bypassing my usual army reflexes for a few groggy blinks.

A five year Sherlock kneeling on my bed to shake me awake comes to focus.

'Sherlock, what the–?'

He shushes me quiet with a finger over my lips, in a complicity as natural as only a child can have with an adult he trusts completely.

'I'm a child, John. I know you'll feel guilty if you start cursing in front of a child, no matter if you know my real age.' He rolls his eyes to the social conventions that I abide by.

'Sherlock!' He doesn't even begin to understand how wrong this is. 'We had agreed that you wouldn't turn us into kids!'

He smiles smugly. 'Do catch up, John! I don't break a promise. I didn't turn you into a child, merely myself.' He looks proud of his rebellion.

_I'm stuck as a babysitter for the weekend._

I frown, giving in to the surprise as well as the sharp pain in my shoulder. _Definitely an adult._ He didn't lie. He twisted grammar and the English language to his benefit. He didn't turn _us _into kids. He turned himself.

_He's just turned me into an adoptive dad._

_Not for long._

'I'm going to phone your parents, Sherlock. I'm sure they'll welcome the chance to relive your childhood', I threaten. I don't think I even meant it. Sherlock, though, doesn't have the usual thick skin and he's standing in shock in front of me, light eyes watering beyond his willpower.

'Damn it!' I grab hold of the small boy in front of me, he's still my friend and I'm not letting him off on his own in this vulnerable state. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean it. I'll stay with you, okay?' He's still sniffing slightly, so I push him closer to me, not sure if the ascetic genius will be okay with the closeness. He seems to read my mind because he tells me:

'You're allowed to hug my five year old self, John, whenever it seems fit.'

_Good to know, Sherlock._ I hug him warmly.

'Why did you do this?' I ask, as a parent lamenting the bad decisions of his kid. _It's like I'm a natural at this parenting business when it comes to Sherlock._

'I need to solve the case', he answers me in that genuine voice, as an insurmountable truth.

I sigh. 'What can I do to help?'

He shakes his head. 'You don't want to be a kid.'

I sigh yet again. He's manipulating me now, like he's always done in adulthood. The one thing he couldn't control, the thing that left him so vulnerable, was my answer to his request, repeated now in the voice of a child. More then a question, it's a deep heartfelt request to embark in the same journey, the same vulnerability.

I hesitate. He adds immediately: 'It's an improved version, John. I took Mycroft's men's serum and improved it.'

'Fine', I give in, in the end. He smiles from ear to ear. His smile fills my heart with a pure joy I can't repress or explain. 'Fine', I repeat. 'What do I need to do, Sherlock?'

He won't break his word, but heaven forbid he'll back down from manipulating me into joining him.

And he's right.

I do feel guilty I cursed in front of a child.

_**.**_

'I've been watching you sleep for far too long, John.'

'Not my fault', I mumble tiredly, as I turn over on the sofa, nestling inside the warm checkered blanket. 'I didn't _do _the serum, Sherlock.'

He insists, over my shoulder, as only a child would do to another kid: '_Synthesize _the serum. That's the word you missed.'

I fight hard not to yawn.'I bet you wrote that word down before turning into a kid.'

He smirks; _of course he did._ 'I still had to read my notes, John.'

He's expecting some sort of reaction, or even a praise. But I'm a sleepy lump on a warm blanket, and I'd like to keep myself that way.

'It's because of your shoulder again, right?' he starts again. 'You haven't been sleeping right at night. Your body is fighting to catch up.'

'Hmpf.'

'You could have told me. I could have turned you into a pain-free kid before, John.'

'Hm.'

'Only you hate that I know that you are disguising pain or tiredness. You're a soldier.'

'Yeah.'

He shakes me roughly. 'John, I'm bored, will you wake up? I can make us coffee.'

'We're – hmpf – kids. No caff-'

'Right. Lestrade should be here any minute.'

'Why?' My question sounds more like a whine than a proper question. It's not that I don't like Lestrade, and my child self trusts him to care for us as an adult in charge, but last thing I need is some sort of father figure angrily telling me I'm a lazy sod.

_Wait, I think I said that out loud. _I turn to face Sherlock immediately. I can see in his expression that he heard me.

Suddenly, I'm not so sleepy anymore.

_**.**_

'You synthesized whatever you gave to John in this kitchen, Sherlock?' Greg is looking baffled at the coloured solutions in flasks, beakers and coffee mug at the end of a long distillation column. Yeah, it looks more like a home-made mad-scientist lab than a state of the art age-modifying serum manufacturing unit as Sherlock is publicizing it (he wrote that one down too). 'And you're sure he's okay? He's been sleeping a lot...'

From my cocoon of blankets I see five year old Sherlock roll his eyes just like he does as an adult. 'Obviously', he states confidently. 'John is my friend, I wouldn't hurt him.' After an awkward pause he adds: 'I've got his back and he's got mine. That's how I know he is my friend, he taught me that. He's my best friend too. I never have a best friend before and I don't want another. It's John.' He said all that at high speed.

'Yeah, I'll take the rest of that coffee now, Sherlock. I'm not sure your body can handle it.'

He tilts his head, analyzing his over-caffeinated self. As if he wasn't hyperactive enough before.

Greg spills the beverage down the sink, I suppose he didn't want to impose his will on a young Sherlock from the start, trying to gain his trust by allowing him the coffee. Or maybe Sherlock convinced him he would be immune to its action due to his real age on the inside. _Greg should have known better. _

At this point I'm already untangling myself from the blanket to get up. Sherlock notices me and smiles brightly. I smile back and stretch my arms out, yawning.

'John!' Greg notices our interaction. There's a wrinkle born out of worry in his forehead, I think Sherlock was the one that got it there in the first place. In a couple of steps Greg comes closer and kneels in front of me, taking in the sight of a five year old John. 'You look more rested', he tells me tentatively.

_What do you tell your mate when he turns himself willingly into a child? _Somehow he finds his answers because he ventures: 'Feeling hungry?'

I realise that I am, and I nod a bit too enthusiastically.

'Thought so. Brought you guys some food. Maybe you can help me convince Sherlock to stay still long enough to eat.'

I nod, responsibly. _Sherlock is my best friend too._

_**.**_


	40. Chapter 40

_A/N: The customary apologies for the delay still apply. Actually this one is still in construction. (Un)luckily a flu intervened to keep me by the computer. Production should accelerate, but it's harder to focus properly, which will inevitably delay it again. Hopefully there won't be too many continuity mistakes, they're a pet hate of mine.  
__Further apologies for the misspellings in the previous chapter the first time I posted it, most of which I corrected by now (or I hope so). As it's so painfully obvious that it might as well have a neon sign arrow flashing at it, English is not my first language. Thank you for bearing through it. __-csf_

* * *

_**. Part Two .**_

_Greg's the official babysitter for the weekend, now._

'You look very amused there, John.' _You have no idea, Greg! _'Anything we ought to know about?' I stumble into a blushing fit at once, shaking my head vehemently.

'He's fine!' Sherlock states firmly from the depths of the mysterious bag Greg brought along with him to Baker Street. It was an immediate flytrap to the curiosity of a young detective. 'John does that a lot at five years old', Sherlock assures us calmly. 'He'll nod, hum and giggle out of the blue. It means he's fine.'

I'm fairly sure I'm blushing beyond human capability now. Sherlock is well aware of my tells as a child. I seem to know less of his, since he keeps acting pondered and restrained, not really letting himself enjoy this childhood thing. I get only brief glimpses of the child, as if his need for control trumped any emotion-based response to the present moment. I guess he's stronger than me, I gave in long ago. I feel comfortable with Sherlock and Greg. _Sherlock...__ I guess he feels responsible for our current state._

'Crime scene, Lestrade? I transformed us for a reason!' Sherlock insists, zipping shut the duffle bag.

_Yeah, the reason is because I refused to let him do what he wanted from the start. We had quite the row the night before our transformation._

_Sherlock and I need to talk._

'After you guys have some breakfast, Sherlock. You don't seem to realise that five year olds need much more rest and relaxation times', Greg defends, calmly. He's being strict but friendly to Sherlock, as always. _It's like he's got tons of experience._

_I giggle to myself. I guess he does._

Greg glances at me, again confused by my secrets, but Sherlock comes to my aid at once, cutting Greg off: 'Toys are most inappropriate. We are still our adult selves.' He blushes ever so slightly before he adds: 'Despite a few momentary lapses fuelled by the biochemistry present in our current physical state.'

'Fine, I'll take them back', again Greg agrees too easily with Sherlock. He's still tiptoeing around Baker Street's genius.

I glance longingly at the mysterious duffle bag. I wish I could play, but Sherlock is right, and I need to push my childish needs aside. I need to keep strong. Make sure Sherlock does the right thing, chooses another way round to solve the case.

_**.**_

Mrs Hudson, in the endless motherly wisdom, as actually kept our children's clothes from our previous transformations, as we came to find out. With hardly any surprise she reacted kindly when she entered 221B to find an adult Detective Inspector and two children with the familiar appearance of her tenants (former tenant in my case). She frowned to Sherlock as if to let him know it's not right to keep secrets like that and promised she'd return with our proper clothes so we wouldn't have to go out into the world in overgrown pyjama bottoms and t-shirts – and in Sherlock's case also with the long pale blue silk dressing gown roaming the floor behind him like a super-hero's cape.

_Baker Street is home to a very creative impromptu family._

I wonder if she kept my old jumper, it was so soft and comfortable, and it had a sun embroiled at the front. _Maybe Sherlock could wear it._ _It'd make him happy and comfy._

Not like he cares. He's on and on with Greg about crime scenes and disguised adults. I'll let them settle this one on their own. In the end, Sherlock always wins. I wonder why Greg still tries, or why he's being particularly stubborn today. I keep a check on the two detectives while I go and make my breakfast in the kitchen. Everything in 221B is taller and bigger than I recall, but with the aid of a little stool I can be as autonomous as I want. Breakfast cereals should do, two bowls and two spoons, the milk is in the fridge by the liver samples Molly brought over last week and are starting to turn bad (even for non-edible specimens; I bet Sherlock forgot to throw them away after he finished with them).

Greg steals another quick glance at me just at the time the milk is heating in the microwave and I'm disposing of the liver samples in a biohazard bag. Greg loses himself in his speech and just stares at the five year old cleaning the counter with disinfectant while waiting for warm milk for his cereals. He glances back at Sherlock only to find another five year old, this one with an innocent look and big puppy eyes. It's enough to make Greg groan in despair and rub his eyes. Sherlock takes the immediate distraction as a victory and insists: 'John and I will be ready in three minutes, Greg. I won't oppose the use of the police car siren to urge us faster to the crime scene. Valuable clues are getting lost as we speak!'

Greg looks like a man who's lost his footing at this point. I frown, before I find a simple answer.

'John?' He seems surprised to see me holding out a cereal bowl for him to have. _I'll make myself another before Sherlock's three minutes are done._

I give him a bright smile to force him to take my offering. He sighs. 'I'm quite sure I was called here to take care of you, John', he confesses, tiredly. I shrug.

_**.**_

Sherlock's eyes are glowing, lighting his entire expression as he rides on the front of a police car. Greg is at the wheel and he's even found some loose reason to turn on the siren. The little detective in the front is mesmerised by the lights and noise as we soar across London.

'Faster, Greg!' he demands at once, all the excitement hardly contained in his smaller frame.

Greg shares a knowing smirk and follows the lead, jumping to the fastest lane, revelling on how the civilian drivers on the road are making way for us. Sherlock's eyes are glowing like stars. It's the thrill of the chase, the rewards of legwork after his fine deductions, all over again. I can't help to smile to witness his volatile happiness.

'Chase that car, Greg! He's got an illegally modified license plate!'

'Not my division', Greg assures the eagle-eyed child by his side. Instead he keeps us on the motorway, where it's safer to speed for a small child's delight.

I look out of the window pane at my side, seating at the back of the car. I've had my good share of sirens and races through the urban grid, being on the medical field. Only the houses are different here. And it's colder. _Only not today._ Today is hot, the air is stale and the noises are fading into giant sirens to warn the compound that there's a breach in security and insurgents are making their way in. I need my gun and my medic kit. I need to help my friends. I'm always too late, I realise with a small sob.

'Stop the car, Greg!' Sherlock says, maybe miles away from me right now. I hardly listen to him.

In the medic tent, they came through the back, and they left pain and destruction.

'I said "stop the car", Greg!'

I can't stop shaking, images are flooding me, drowning me in the desert. I won't fight them, they come because it's only fair that I carry them within me.

'John! Talk to me, John, please!'

As small hands grip me tightly, they send an electric shock through my entire body and I jerk away from the touch. I close my eyes tightly, curling in on myself.

'No. You need to focus, John! Listen to me! You're in London, remember? Can you remember who I am?'

_Leave me alone. Please._

'You know who I am, John. I'm Sherlock. If I'm here and if you know who I am then you're back in London, right?'

_This isn't London._

'John, you're having a flashback. You are in control, you can still push it back... Will you try, just for me?'

I want to make the effort. Slowly I blink, straining hard to return to the same reality he sees around us. We're in a police car, parked on emergency lane of the motorway, and Sherlock and I are trapped in our five years old selves.

_At five I'm lousy at dealing with PTSD symptoms. _I can usually breathe steadily and push it away. This time it snuck up on me and I let it overwhelm me.

I look down on my hands, unwanted tears blurring my sight. I'm crying because of what I experienced, because Sherlock knew and came loyally to my aid, and because it's too much for a five year old. I don't want to be five - or any other age - not anymore.

Sherlock has damp eyes and he pulls me in tightly into a heartfelt hug. His warmth is the material proof that someone cares, and it grounds me on this side of reality. I sniff against his sun embroiled jumper.

'He's okay, Greg', Sherlock announces over his shoulder. Only then I realise that Sherlock unbuckled his seatbelt and jumped to the backseat where his friend was having a serious meltdown, quite possibly before Greg had even managed to stop the car safely. I also notice that Greg let Sherlock deal with my flashback, giving us space, confident of our friendship bond. Or perhaps Sherlock never even gave him the chance to react otherwise.

'John...' Greg starts. He doesn't know _this_ happens to me sometimes, he can't possibly be aware of the ghosts I carry on the inside. I let this one slip at five years old. _It won't happen again._

'Crime scene?' Sherlock talks before I can.

With one last worried look at me, Greg nods. Business as usual. _Thanks for that, Greg, I appreciate it._

_**.**_

Soon, too soon, we arrive at the crime scene. A taped-off back alley, as dingy as usual, dark and dirty. There seems to be no lack of evidence in there. If anything, the trouble will be to realise what is really useful.

Greg steps out of the car, conveniently forgetting to tell us to stay inside. Immediately Sherlock unfastens his seat belt. I follow his lead, but struggle with mine. With an eye roll my friends leans over and sets me free. 'Stay close, John. We are yet to find out the danger level of the situation.'

'There is none. A boy was kidnapped here, and then got returned. That's the whole of it.'

Sherlock shushes me impatiently, obviously taking the whole business into a different perspective. 'Stay close to me', he tells me, again being too old, too responsible.

We've stepped out of the police car and so far no one seems to have noticed the five year olds that wandered into a police crime scene. I have a good look around the alley. A couple of narrow windows further up, no way to climb over to them. A wreck of a walking path with litter tipped on it. All sorts of junk, but only one object comes to my attention. I'm immediately drawn to it. A stuffed toy, maybe an old one, dirty and worn, among cluttered debris of brick and cement. I pick it up, dusting away the dirt of its face, revealing a deeper tone of chocolate brown in a bear-like face.

'What did you find, John?'

I'm startled by Sherlock's presence just behind me. As I moved away from the car, Sherlock wouldn't leave me on my own, and followed loyally.

'I found a toy, Sherlock. Someone left it behind. It must be missed very much.'

'Or someone threw it away.'

'No', I know that at once. 'Teddy got lost.'

'What did you call him, John?'

I smile with ease. 'Teddy.' _That's his name. Teddy, the bear._

Sherlock rolls his eyes in what he assumes to be a grown-uppish manner.

'We came here to have a look at the crime scene, John, remember?'

I nod, responsibly.

I can appreciate my friend's alternative method to solving the case.

Last night I prohibited Sherlock to interrogate the latest victim of a kidnapping. A child has been the only witness of an awful crime, most likely committed by someone within his family. There are several evidences that place him in the crime scene of a fatal shooting. Why he was there and left is still unknown, and also his connection to the victim or the murderer. It's even unclear how much did he actually witness or partake with the criminal. The puzzling evidence didn't get missed by the Yard when the crime was denounced to the police. The little boy has been found the next morning, safe and unharmed, sitting on the police station steps in his pyjamas and a blanket. He won't speak, and communicates only minimally with the medical staff and family. So far he's been unable to explain what happened to him, or to explain his ordeal, the depths of which remain shrouded in mystery.

Sherlock was sure the truth would emerge from a few targeted questions. He's probably right, but I won't allow him to try. This child has been through a traumatic situation, the depths of which are still unknown.

Sherlock then suggested that if I was so careful, I should be the one interrogating the child, following his lead. Again I refused, on the same principle. The boy has been through enough. I won't damage further than the police and medical services have already done.

Sherlock reminded me I'm a doctor, my mission is to help people. Solving the case would help the little boy.

I reminded Sherlock that not even doctors can heal all ailments, some just need time.

Impatiently, Sherlock noticed that would make me useless.

Angrily, I reminded Sherlock cases don't trump people.

Sarcastically, Sherlock added maybe I should tell that to the victim's family in order to explain why the police were doing absolutely nothing.

Ironically, I questioned Sherlock if he was the police. Bitterness ensued when he reminded me he was a genius and I'm not. I gave him a daring look, demanding proofs.

In the end, as important as the case may be to my friend, I will not let him lose sight of the whole picture.

Greg comes over to us at this point. He looks tired but it's with a kind smile that he addresses the two boys that by the end of the day will carry him from tiredness to sheer exhaustion. And he's sure to know it, but he chose not to back down. _He never backed down from coming to Sherlock's aid, or mine._

'Hi, Greg!' I greet him with a smile back. Sherlock stands up more straight, all grown-uppish again. Greg doesn't seem to have been expecting anything else and dares to ruffle his dark curls in an affectionate manner. For all the grown up act five year old Sherlock is putting on, he doesn't challenge Greg's gestures.

'What have you got there, boys?'

'A lost toy', Sherlock states.

'Teddy', I introduce with a smile.

'Teddy could use a bath', Greg comments, scrunching his face.

'Teddy is our friend', I make it quite clear from the start, frowning in Teddy's defence.

'And he's called Teddy, then?' Greg picks the bear up, rolling it in his hands to search for signs of a previous owner. He too finds none. 'You named him Teddy Bear. Couldn't come up with something more out of the ordinary?' he asks, conversationally.

Immediately Sherlock defends: 'Even common names can be given to the most extraordinary people, Lestrade. There may be a lot of Johns in England, but no John is like our John' and he points to me to make his case. Greg relents at once (possibly too tired to care).

'Fine, "Teddy" it is. Time to get you guys home. Mrs Hudson will be waiting already. Ask her if she can wash Teddy, Sherlock.'

My friend shrugs, not really bothered, or just trying to preserve the crime scene evidences that Teddy may carry on his fur. Sherlock was never one to not have hidden motives at all times.

_**.**_


	41. Chapter 41

_A/N: T__his collection aims for different genres and styles. However, I will allow myself to fall into the temptation of repeating myself, so long as I believe I may have something new to offer. Why? Because it's challenging me, and that has been enough for me so far. Anyway, it's been over forty postings, some repetition is bound to occur, right? I cannot subject my collection to external criticism, no matter how much I'll still respect all the inputs. At the end of the day, it's my story / collection, my way, my responsibility. -csf_

* * *

_**. PArt Three .**_

Five years old Sherlock went to a crime scene with his best friend. Therefore five years old Sherlock managed to bring back a couple of souvenirs. One of them is the run out bear that Mrs Hudson tried to declutch from his arms as soon as she saw the state of it. Teddy is its name. _Teddy is our new friend._

Another fieldtrip souvenir was a few green fibres that got trapped in the victim's earrings that Sherlock is sure means the body was transported wrapped in that green fabric to this new location after all the foul play had ended.

DI Lestrade thanked Sherlock for the information and promised to look into it. Just before he bid Sherlock good night, returning Teddy to him. Sherlock took hold of his scrubbed-to-a-sanitary-level evidence with a mixture of a superior smirk and a hurt pout, and said no more.

_I know he collected all the evidence he could from Teddy before arriving at Baker Street, just in case. He's just playing hurt now._

Greg tells me to sleep well too before shutting off the lights in 221B's living room, where we're both camping for the night, with blankets and pillows. The familiar forms of the place I always felt was the closest thing to home after returning from abroad ease my over-stimulated child's mind.

'That was very smart, Sherlock!' I tell him sincerely, in a whisper. Studying the green fibres from a glance and listing probable provenance like that. Even at five Sherlock is proving to be a better detective than most of the Yard.

Sherlock, however, shakes his head, allowing his dark curls to bounce from side to side. 'Am not', he whispers, sadly. I frown.

_Why would he think that?_

'You are smarter than me', I try to prove my point with whatever I've got at hand.

'Mycroft is the smart one', Sherlock tells me automatically. As soon as he says it, I can see him freeze, frown and release his expression in sadness. He faces away, looking somewhat deflated. _It's an old belief he carries from childhood, imprinted in the early years._ Truthful or not, it made Sherlock fight hard every step of the way to be the best, the smartest, the wisest, the match for his brother. It also made him miss out on a lot of his childhood.

Sherlock isn't being grown-uppish because he feels responsible for the pair of us. _He's being this way because this is what it was like for him when he was a kid. _A mixture of a deep desire to prove himself in the eyes of an older, caring but overwhelming, sibling, with an inevitable streak of rebellion that in the end drove the two men apart in appearances. They act like they can't stand to be in the same room, yet they rely only on each other when faced with the most puzzling national crisis. They wouldn't trust anyone else.

I'm about to say something – inevitably the wrong thing, Sherlock is very sensitive about the Holmes family – when I hear his steady deep breathing. He's fallen asleep already.

_I guess it can wait till morning._

With one last glance at my friend clutching on to the Teddy bear I let out a soft giggle and allow myself to drift into sleep. Being five years old is exhausting.

_**.**_

Even though Sherlock is sleeping more now he is a child, he never needed much rest and sure as the daylight is back outside the window when I wake up, so is Sherlock already up and energetic. Greg is there as well, trying to no avail to quiet down the little detective.

Out of his duffle bag from yesterday, Greg keeps pulling out toys, new clothes, sweets. _He's just like Santa._

By my side, Sherlock's eyes are shining in contained delight but he won't give in. Trying to seem unnerved as he gives me a heavy look before clearly marking: 'You realise we're adults trapped in children's bodies, Lestrade?'

Greg smirks. 'I thought you might like one last chance to relive your childhood. John seems to enjoy the chance.'

I blush. _I'm a soldier, I had bad days, and Greg brought fluffy toys I want to hug and cuddle._

I can hardly help myself. It's stronger than me. My mind is being commanded by my five year old body in ways neuroscience has yet to explain. Giving in the last times felt only natural, I haven't felt this safe and protected since I played snow fights with my sister Harry when we were kids. I never thought I was being so closely studied, scrutinised by Greg. _I feel ashamed now._ I look down on my feet, holding back the tears that prove that holding back on the child reactions is going to be really, really hard.

Suddenly I'm snuck up by a soft touch on my shoulder. It's Sherlock, standing by my side in clear support. _He knows what I'm going through._ He's foreseen it, and fought it all the way through. While I let myself fall into the trap and become some sort of toddler. I—

'Thanks, Greg.'

_Wait, what? Sherlock?_

He's accepting to be a child in front of DI Lestrade. Greg's our mate. I know we can trust him. But why isn't Sherlock afraid this will change the way Greg deals with the grown-up regular versions of us?

Sherlock is giving up his cold façade to side with me.

_**.**_

'John... Teddy needs your help.'

We're alone in Baker Street for the moment, since Greg went out to get us all some fish and chips. _Not before locking up the most dangerous instruments Sherlock possesses._

_If Sherlock needs any of them he'll just pick the cabinet door lock._

_It's like Greg doesn't really trust us. Can't tell you why._

'What is it, Sherlock?'

I look into his light coloured eyes, tuned lighter and more ethereal by the dampness that he can hardly control.

'I think Teddy is sick', Sherlock tells me. _Teddy is a toy, what does he mean?_

'What happened, Sherlock?'

'His...' Words are failing him, yet he carries on. 'His tummy. That's where he's sick. You're a doctor, you can help Teddy.'

_Wait, what?_

'You think something is hidden on Teddy?' I realise with a startle.

'We will need to operate', Sherlock tells me solemnly. Still he's holding the ragged fabric's bear to his chest in protection. As he senses my surprise he valiantly nods. I marvel at how quietly sensible he's being.

'Are you sure you can put him back together again, Sherlock?'

My friend tilts his head in a child's expression of amusement. 'Not me, John, you! Teddy needs a proper doctor.'

I shake my head, looking down on my hands. It's been a long time since I've operated, it was a whole different lifetime ago._ I can't do this. _Maybe once before, on a foreign battlefield, when I was fighting an uneven battle for each of my mates.

'You can do it, John!' he seems to have read my mind. I look up to my friend's light green eyes, confidence is imprinted on them.

_Maybe I can really do this._

_**.**_

_We're not ordinary kids, Sherlock and I. _This recurrent thought assaults me yet again as we stand on both sides of the long coffee table, Teddy bear between us, preparing for an operation - hopefully not an autopsy - on the fluffy toy.

'Thank you, John', Sherlock murmurs quietly as he sees the attention I'm paying to the improvised operating theatre. I glance back at him.

Sherlock's kind heart has yet again given refuge to another lost soul. Helping it heal and giving it a home. The trouble is his child's mind has formed emotional bonds with a fabric toy this time. It's still the same response as always. This precious giving heart underneath a distant-like exterior. If one didn't pay attention, one could miss the signs entirely.

_Most people do anyway._

_He won't correct them either._

'Scalpel', I state briefly. It's strange to hear my words flow in this child's voice of mine. Sharp precise instructions is what I need to give out to keep the patient safe. Sherlock is as focused as I am, and he hands me the scissors at once. I lean in for the seams at the tummy, anticipation building in.

_It's been a while._

Sherlock won't wait for me to call it out and hands me the tweezers from his chemistry set. I take them in one hand, as I'm still probing with the other hand's fingers.

'Got something!'

Sherlock's eyes widen significantly. I tweeze the small object and start plucking it out gently. He hands me a cereal bowl for the foreign object. As I drop it in the porcelain, it clinks metallically. It looks like a darkened bullet, old and crumpled as if it hit some target before, served its purpose. _We've got the missing bullet from Greg's crime scene._

'Do you know what this is, Sherlock?' I whisper, mesmerised.

'Obviously', he retorts coldly, keeping my enthusiasm for ammunition under check. 'A calibre 9 bullet from an old-fashioned Beretta.'

'No, Sherlock, I mean this is the breakthrough in the case Greg needed!' I defend our friend the DI immediately.

'Not so sure', my best friend, the great detective, opposes. I look at him eagerly, hoping to hear his case solving once again. At whatever age, it always amazes me how he pulls it off every time. Pulsing with life, brilliancy enwrapped in a fast self-propelling monologue that gives back purpose, logic and truth to ease the wrongs in life.

This time, however, he remains silent. _He hasn't fully worked it out yet._

'Fix Teddy', Sherlock requests before long. He's already handing me thread and needle. Reverentially I take hold of it and start fixing the seam under Sherlock's careful watch. This process takes up my full attention but as far as I can tell Sherlock isn't investigating our finding, he's keeping his interest stuck on the operating theatre. As I finish, he finally tells me, mesmerised:

'You did surgical stitches, John.'

I frown, looking down. He's right. The fabric is tight shut by medical stitches. My hands found the memory of making those stitches when I can hardly tie my own shoelaces.

_Teddy is damaged now._ He'll never be the same again. There will be a constant reminder of the messed up result he is now. _Like I am._ I start shivering, I can't help it.

Sherlock stares up at me, surprised.

'He pulled through, right, John?'

I nod. 'He's damaged now.' _No one will ever want him again._

Sherlock must have called my name, next thing I know his hands are on my shoulders. _Holding me together._

'I'll always want him, John. I'll always need him', he tells me, confidently.

_You should know_, he seems to tell me.

I sniff, between a couple of hiccups born out of my effort to hold myself together.

'Really?'

He nods, very seriously. Then he smiles to me. 'Thank you, Doctor John.'

I sniff again, a smile blossoming back at last.

_**.**_

We hear footsteps from 221 stairs, they surprise us then. As kids we are often less conscious of our surroundings, I realise. It must be Greg, returning to the flat. Before we know it, the DI comes into 221B and freezes at the sight of our improvised operating theatre. He quirks an eyebrow at the scene two preschoolers have conjured out of the living room. With a troubled look he gulps and moves over to the coffee table where, to all appearances, we've been performing some voodoo ritual on a stuffed animal.

_Greg should have already known we're not ordinary children._

It seems to freeze the experienced DI in the spot, his gaze going from disgusted to concerned. 'You two have been autopsying Teddy, then? Had fun?' he tries.

_What? No!_

Before I can defend my work, Sherlock is already defending me: 'John said Teddy will be okay, John is a great doctor!'

Greg visibly gives up. What else had he been expecting from the Baker Street double act?

'Had fun then, boys?' he recuperates most of his composure.

I don't envy Greg's babysitting responsibilities right now.

_**.**_


	42. Chapter 42

_**. Part Four / Last Part .**_

I sneezed.

_Five year old John has got a minor cold and sneezes._ That's all it takes for the whole atmosphere of 221B's living room to change abruptly. Sherlock widens his green eyes in apprehension and Greg leaves his stupor behind to come to me immediately.

This is beyond him, right now. How an adult turned into a kid deals with colds and sneezes. Just the day before I wouldn't get up from my slumber, wrapped up in blankets. Greg worries that my current drug induced state can affect the progression of this cold.

_It's okay, I won't stay like this for much longer._ We've got maybe six more hours and then Sherlock and I are back to the adults we were before. In the meantime, we've got a case to solve, one that is thickening its plot at every turn.

In mutual agreement with Sherlock I extend the finding to Greg. The DI takes the cereal bowl contained the damaged bullet and lets out a soft whisper.

'You found this in Teddy?' We nod, at the same time. 'This is really important, guys.'

_Told you, Sherlock. This will solve the case!_

_Or just about. The rest is up to you._

_Why won't Greg storm off 221B with the bullet to take it to the Yard?_

Greg has kept himself kneeling in front of me, I hardly took notice of how his worried gaze hasn't left me for more than a couple of seconds at a time. It's only as he extends his hand to my forehead to check my temperature that I realise his intent. _I'm fine, Greg. I'm the doctor here._ I give him a dark look and pat away his hand fiercely. I can't help but to smirk smugly as I can see him tense for a second. Next thing, though, he grabs me by the shoulders and forces me to the sofa seat. 'I just want to check your temperature, John.'

I don't even struggle, stunned by the forcibility of his attitude. _Better to stand still and not move._

Again he's feeling my forehead for temperature, suspecting me to be feverish. I know I'm not.

'You've started shivering, John, but you haven't a fever', he tells me puzzled, searching for hidden answers in my expression.

'Let him go, Greg', Sherlock tells him, markedly, clearly, very serious even in his five year old voice. 'You are scaring him.'

I remain unnaturally frozen as I wonder why Sherlock thinks I'm scared of Greg.

Lestrade bites back a reply. By his body language I can tell he finds it improbable that the John Watson he knows could be scared of him.

_Am I?_

'He doesn't deal well with authority, Greg. Not at this age, he can't help it, it's an automated response by now. He starts shivering, can't you see it? _Leave him alone, stop it, or I'll make you_', a very cross young Sherlock threatens our friend to protect me.

Greg looks naturally outraged. He defends, immediately: 'Sherlock, I'm not-! I would never hurt a child! Why would John expect that?'

'The world isn't perfect', Sherlock retorts gloomily, coming over to me. He hands me Teddy, very seriously. 'John, I think Teddy is feeling cold.'

I frown. Can a stuffed toy feel cold? _I guess I can always hug him warm._

Shuffling my feet and clutching to Teddy I finally walk away, Sherlock and Greg's gazes following me.

'I didn't know', Greg whisper is apologetic.

_I'd be sad or angry if my mind wasn't so waterlogged right now._

'I didn't either', Sherlock adds behind my back, in the same tone of voice.

_He deduced it._

I take out the colouring pencils Greg has brought us and take a quiet seat at the kitchen table. I want to do a drawing for Greg. I want to draw a house, and a tree, and a sun in the blue sky.

Sherlock sighs and follows me to the kitchen table, mimicking my choice. He takes just one of the pencils and looks attentively to the blank page in front of him. Finally he drops the pencil and starts making precise, calculated strokes.

Before my marvelled eyes, Sherlock is sketching Westminster Abbey with precision. Where he gets those details so accurate, I suppose they come from his Mind Palace. I giggle at the idea that Sherlock keeps Westminster Abbey in his Mind Palace. _It must be really big, this Mind Palace._ That's Sherlock for you. He's been there in just a sheet and he can sketch it from memory, at five years old.

'You need to go to the Yard', Sherlock says somewhere in the middle of an arched window. Greg seems startled.

'Well, I—' _He_ _doesn't want to leave us alone._

'They'll need the bullet to wrap up the case.' I look up at my friend, then at the DI.

'We still don't know who did it, Sherlock.' _He's got a point._

'The boy knows.' _Not this again._

'He's been through enough.' _Even_ _Greg knows that, Sherlock._

'I think I understand now. Could I have a word with him, just that?'

'Sherlock?'

'I want to return Teddy and say I'm sorry.'

Both Greg and I are looking to Sherlock's innocent eyes, his whole demeanour so different from the night we had a long row over this idea.

_**.**_

A few hours later, and a ballistics' report rounded up, Sherlock Holmes finally gets his way. It's in the appearance of a five year old curly haired boy that he gets a chance to visit the little boy that was a witness to a foul crime. In his wake Sherlock has this other five year old, a blond spiky haired boy, that follows him around as always. Me.

It's in a quiet room, with bland colours and no strong sounds that we come to find this third boy, a real one, with a scruffy expression and scared eyes. He's quietly sitting at a long table. He's been given toys and pencils but he's taken none. We've been told he hasn't hold on to anything since he's been found after his apparent kidnap.

'Hi, I'm Sherlock', my friend starts softly, closing the door behind us. 'And this is John, my best friend.'

The boy keeps quiet and distant. I look over to Sherlock. Maybe we should leave.

'John has a great shot, likes medicine and is smart. I'm a detective and I play the violin. John tells me I'm smart. Even if I think Mycroft is smarter. John says that doesn't matter. It's about trying to be the best we can be. John says smart things like that. That's why I couldn't come here before. He wouldn't let me. I wanted to have come here and asked you a lot of questions, Chandler.'

At the mention of his name, the boy stares back at Sherlock, looking scared.

_How did Sherlock know his name? Not even the Yard knew that._

'Now I don't want to ask you a lot of questions anymore', Sherlock continues, that old streak of brilliancy in monologue sparkling inside the five year old. 'I came here to give you back your toy. You dropped it when you saw the crime from one of those windows high up in the narrow alley. You were standing at the window while your uncle was doing business with a rough crowd bellow. You shouldn't have been there to witness the deal. Drugs, I think it was. He asked you to wait far away from him and the dealers, to keep you safe, and pushed you into an empty house. You must have been curious so you went upstairs in the house and found a window. You may not even have seen it, but you heard the argument and the shot. That's when Teddy slipped off your fingers, outside the window, and fell on a pile of rubbish below. _I drop things all the time as well. Especially if I'm distracted._ They left the body and by coincidence found Teddy near them, ripped his fur just a bit and hid the bullet in there so that the police couldn't find them by the marks in the bullet and the gun it came from. They thought no one would ever find the bullet and threw teddy back to the rubbish. They never knew you were in the house. You were left there alone, and unhurt. You walked all night till you found a police station. But by then you didn't know how to explain what had happened.'

In a quiet sober move, Sherlock looks down at Teddy one last time, pats its fluffy head goodbye, and hands it over to the little boy.

'It's not mine', he lies in a meek voice. Still scared.

'Actually it is. It was your birthday present, I think', Sherlock states from his five years old wisdom, coming closer to seat by the boy's side. 'Your uncle got it for you. Only the bad guys got to him first. And to Teddy too. That's his name by the way: Teddy. And they used Teddy to hide something important in him. My best friend John fixed Teddy and he's as good as new now. I think Teddy has been waiting to go back home, and his home is with you, Chandler.'

The little boy is drinking in every word the subdued genius is quietly giving him. I have to admire Sherlock's insightfulness, the way he knows how to handle himself around a traumatised child. It's as if being a kid again himself, by my side, has shown Sherlock the way back to his childhood at last.

_Although I'm fairly sure the Baker Street genius never really lost it completely._

And in a cold analysis of events, Sherlock has had the last word as always. He still won by getting his way regarding the interrogation he wanted to lead to the child witness. Only I really couldn't have asked for a more attentive approach. He listened to me as well. It goes to show you Sherlock has the kindest of hearts.

_**.**_

One last hour to go till we go back to our adult selves, and we're secretly having a countdown. We came to get some fresh air at the gardened grounds behind the Yard. I would bet Greg is keeping a close eye on us through a window, right in the middle of the praise and credit his getting for solving the case. Sherlock and I don't need any credits, couldn't really take any in this state, and Greg deserves a reward for all he put up with this weekend.

We're walking about aimlessly, grabbing on to our last markedly child-like thoughts in some melancholic manner when my eyes get drawn to something.

'What is it, John?' Sherlock reacts at once.

'A little bird, I think it's hurt', I report at once, kneeling in the grass by a tree.

'Cool. Can I autopsy it?'

I frown angrily at my friend, I'm already picking up the small wounded bird off the ground. It is frail, feathery and so light I know I must be a scary giant to it. _I need to take care of it, nurse t to health._

Sherlock is quietly watching my face, with that look he does a lot as an adult, as if studying me. I'm not that interesting; it must be something else. Maybe he's doubting I can save this little creature.

_I know I need to try._

'I'll help you', Sherlock vows suddenly. 'To care for Teddy II.'

I frown. He's not Teddy II. He's a bird and he should be called appropriately.

Only then I notice Sherlock is vowing to help me, follow my lead, something much the opposite of the majority of our partnership. _He really trusts me as a doctor and a friend. A best friend too._

'Come on then, Sherlock, let's take him to his nest. I can hear his mother calling him.'

Sherlock's eyes widen. 'Up in the tree?' he's looking all around for a ladder, I stop him short.

'Sherlock, we're boys right now, remember? You've always loved hiking up stairs, jumping fences and leaping out between buildings, this should be a piece of cake.' He smiles like the little rebel he is.

'Race you up there, John!'

Greg is going to have a fit over this.

_**.**_


	43. Chapter 43

_A/N: Is this cheating? Probably is. But – everyone saw this one coming, right? By the way, acronyms are my nemesis in the English language. Never seem to decode them. It just doesn't come easy. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'Drop what?' I have to ask my friend, confused.

He's just startled me, asking me out of the blue to drop something. I have no clue what is on his mind. Unlike the genius himself, I can't read people's minds just from a glance at them. _He often reads mine._ In between a couple of rapid blinks too.

He mumbles it again, intensely scrutinising his phone, curled up in his armchair, opposite mine. I try to gather, patiently:

' "Dropiter"? Is that a thing or a place, Sherlock?'

He frowns in honest disbelief. As if everyone should know.

'No, DROPIT, _just DROPIT, John!_ It's an acronym! It stands for Directory of Regional Operations Pertaining Important Targets, John! You're a military man – in essence. You must have heard about it. As always you fill your head with unimportant things and remain blindingly unaware of what really matters!'

I sustain his comment with ease, before I sip some more of my tea – lukewarm by now. 'Somewhere in the desert, patching up wounded soldiers, someone must have forgotten to let me know, Sherlock.'

He actually skips a beat. _It was necessary, Sherlock._

'John...' He shakes his head, phone completely abandoned now, and changes curse, getting up, jittery. 'I mean now, in London. Didn't Mycroft tell you about it? He's been kidnapping you times enough...'

I disguise a smile. 'Your brother is always welcomed to kidnap me when I'm carrying bags full of groceries home. Otherwise, I'd appreciate if he'd leave me alone.'

Sherlock will not let himself get distracted. 'So he really hasn't told you?'

My turn to frown. 'Am I a part of his plan to keep you protected? Well, that's very considerate of him. Do I get a secret badge or something? Maybe there's a secret handshake?'

'John...'

'Fine!' I lower the newspaper, exasperated. 'I've got your back, Sherlock, you should know that. Last thing I need is to have Mycroft think I respond to his authority or that I do it for the Government.'

Sherlock is no short of speechless, as he stares dumbfounded at me after my explosion. _And it takes a lot to surprise Sherlock these days._

'No, John, I...' he sighs. 'See? Mycroft should have talked to you.'

_About what?_ I shake my head in silent disagreement. Sherlock just taps his fingers impatiently in the living room table, leaning over it to me in complicity.

'It's because of the Secrecy Act you signed, John.'

I blink. 'What Secrecy Act?'

He tells me pointedly: 'Can't tell you about it, must remain a secret. Hence it's name.'

'I didn't sign it.'

'Yeah you did', he assures me smugly.

'Was I drunk or drugged?' he freezes in the spot, looking for a way out of the conversation. 'Sleepwalking?' I add to the list of possibilities. _I know I could go on and on._

'Let it go, John. No lasting damage. It's meant to protect you. "Important Targets", remember?'

I tilt my head to the side. That makes little sense. 'I'm not important.'

He blurts out an impatient demand: 'Will you ever just pay attention, John?'

'I'm trying here! You keep me in the dark as always. Am I in danger? Who's the nut job this time?'

He smirks, self-assured. 'And Mycroft thought I shouldn't tell you. Thus the clause 3.1.b.'

'Hm.' I pointedly look at the genius.

Sherlock sighs before reciting by heart: "In the case of a reasonably confirmed imminent threat to the target assessments will be made in order to deem the imperative need to inform the afore mentioned target."

'You'll see if you want to tell me or not', I gather. 'You'd just keep me in the dark?'

He looks away after a couple of insightful blinks. I realise he has already. _Before. Other times._

This time he wants me to know the danger surrounding me. _Why?_ So I can protect myself. _And him, I'll protect my friend as well._ Against Mycroft Holmes' will, probably. He prefers to keep it to his Secret Services. When did big brother get involved? Why are the Holmes brothers debating the need to keep me in the dark?

'Tell me about it', I request simply. We need to create a plan, enforce it. Protect ourselves and fight back. It's us against some new unknown enemy. Back to the battlefield.

_I never left it._

'You and Mary should leave the country, John.'

_Funny,_ he's not even looking at me while he says it. Mary's a different matter altogether, but I don't believe he expected me to run away from danger, not even for a second. _Whatever is coming for him I'll face it as well._

Or coming for me. But let's face it; the enemies are usually after the great Sherlock Holmes. I tend to be neglected or disregarded.

_Suits me just fine, strategically speaking._ Helps me to back up Sherlock the better.

They never expect much of the quiet short guy.

_Their mistake._

I set my shoulders straighter and clench my jaw. This run down former soldier will have his saying on any situation endangering Sherlock. _It's only right._

'John, I can read you like a book. I'm not letting you on in order to have backup. I can see you devising a plan of attack, gathering your resources. You want your gun, and to phone Lestrade for backup, and some old army buddies as well.'

I'm not surprised as Sherlock saw all that. His downplay of my plan must mean he's got a better plan. 'What do you need me for?'

Sherlock smiles a one-sided smirk. 'Nothing for now.'

'What can I know? Can I finally have a look at that operational list you keep talking about? DROPIT, was it? I want to see what they have in store for your protection, Sherlock.'

'No, John, I...' he sighs. 'See? Mycroft should have talked to you, not me.'

That gets me worried. 'What?'

'I'm not on DROPIT, John. Even Mycroft doesn't trust his own Secret Services as much as to put my name there with instructions. Having said that, we deemed it safe for you to be on DROPIT.'

I revise what it stands for, very fast. 'That's silly, I'm not an Important Target, Sherlock!'

He scolds me with a carefully measured look. I sigh. 'Seriously? I'm on DROPIT?'

'Obviously.'

'Because someone might get me in order to get to you?' I'm finally letting it sink in.

He shrugs apologetically. 'Usually that's how it works, sorry.'

I smirk defiantly. 'Don't be. I'm highly kidnapable and valuable underground, it's a true shame I'm not properly appreciated more often.'

Sherlock seems to miss out on all of my sarcasm as he turns a sickly shade of pale, again staring at me. _What now?_

'DROPIT is not enough', he mumbles under his breath, turning to collect his phone again.

'Sherlock...?'

'Mycroft can get you one of those 24 hours subcutaneous implant tracking devices!'

'No one is tagging me, Sherlock!' I warn him at once. _We've talked about this before._

'Then you prefer a maximum surveillance house with—'

'That's like a fancy jail!' I interrupt. 'Sherlock, no one is going to hurt me. I'm a washed-up former soldier playing doctors at the NHS. I'm not an Important Target!'

'You are. Moriarty thought you were a target. So did Magnussen. Forgotten that already?'

'So does the chip and pin machine at the supermarket! I can take care of myself. That's why I'm your colleague at crime scenes and not... Phillip Anderson!'

Sherlock halts, glancing sideways at me.

'Anderson?' he repeats.

'Yeah', I sustain. 'He could be of assistance, I'm sure. What's wrong with him?' I defy, with a smirk. I've heard about Anderson's little obsessive streak.

Sherlock's diverting his gaze now. 'He doesn't know how to make a good cup of tea', he alleges, hanging by a thin thread. I smile.

'Fine, I'll make you tea so long as you take me off that DROPIT list.'

'Deal', he accepts. _Way too fast._

_I'm sure to be on some other fancy named list already._

_**.**_


	44. Chapter 44

_**. First Half .**_

This paper cup in my hand, warm and odorous from the strong black coffee it held, is my lifeline. The only object I possess for sure right now. My whole worldly possessions reduced to a paper cup. It's priceless.

_It's a paper cup._ I lower my head slightly, trying to ease the tension off my shoulders for a second. This paper cup is the only real thing I can hang onto at this point.

After the train I was travelling in derailed from its tracks, passengers were shocked and hurt. The explosion in the engine from some malfunction or bad intent created danger and uncertainty so I helped carrying outside from the smoke filled carriages the ones that couldn't get out on their own. The frosty air outside was as much of a death trap as the burning engine up ahead. The driver and his colleague were already putting out the flames with extinguishers. So I took upon myself to do what is my job. I assessed, triaged, supported the passengers and crew the best I could. I knew help was on its way. I knew it'd arrive as soon as possible and so it did.

I told the paramedics arriving in several incoming ambulances who to take first and what to look out for. As the chaos slowly turned into an organised sadness and hurt, my attention started to drift away. Could be because of the strong hit in my head from the train's sudden sway off track, just before the screams, the fright, the pain...

I close my eyes like a defeated soldier, returning home after the war. Like always it feels like there are no winners in this god-forsaken game.

Little by little I notice that the chaotic sounds – the screams, the crying, the cringe of metal structures crumbling together, the steady steps of coordinated rescuers – are all fading away.

_Maybe I banged my head too hard._

I look up, for a second. I see people talking, their lips moving, but no sound reaches my brain.

_Temporary deafness._

_It's a blessing in disguise._

I lower my gaze back to the paper cup. The coffee dregs on the bottom are settling on a random pattern I try to deconstruct for no good reason.

_Looks like a blob_, to tell you the truth.

A friendly soft-touch hand falls on my shoulder, startling me. Kneeling by my side with a heavy worried expression is DI Lestrade. _Greg._ Must have been called upon the scene on duty, all hands on deck. He calls out my name, uncertainly. I can recognise the word forming in his lips, I can remember how it sounds, but only deafening silence envelops me now.

He's waiting for an answer. 'Hi, Greg', I mutter. My throat feels dry and scratched. I wonder if he even heard me. Apparently so. He's pouring out his soul in a silent monologue now. _Haven't a clue what he's saying._ He looks tired and old. What else would you expect out of an accident site as terrible as this? Greg is a good man, he can't help but to feel for everyone there.

He's calling me again. He looks suspicious now. Asking me silent questions I don't know how to answer. Maybe I need to tell him.

A sharp pain as if my head was split open and I curl upon myself out of instinct. Loud ringing is filling the empty void now the bulk of the pain is gone, only reverberations remain. They make me feel nauseated. Greg grabs me by my shoulder. I struggle to force my look towards him. It doesn't help that he's standing right in front of a rescue's vehicle headlights. His figure sharply contrasting in darkness from the painfully bright light. I hold my gaze strong, sustaining his enquiring brown eyes. Then he sharply turns his head and seems to call out for backup.

_I'm fine, Greg._

Before I know it he's grabbing my paper cup, trying to extract from my cold fingers the one worldly possession I maintain for sure, my connection to a dubious reality that maintains unaltered course of events outside this private hell of mine. I won't give it away. Not until all of this is over. Not until I know for sure the world remains as such.

'I'm fine, Greg!'

He jumps back by the forcibility of my words. Or maybe I screamed at him now that I have no perception of the volume of my voice. It's hard to talk over the loud echoing ringing that is driving me mad.

A young paramedic comes over, certainly by Greg's request. He tries to push a blood pressure cuff on my arm and I need to shoo him away. There are other patients, hurt people, that need him right now. I can wait.

Greg takes his other hand to my other shoulder, taking a grip on me. He's talking away – probably raising his voice too – trying to reach me. I smirk; _it doesn't work that way, Greg._ You can't scream your way into my brain.

He keeps repeating something to me, then to the young medic. I think maybe he's got it. He keeps repeating the word "shock", though. Who is in shock? Not me, I told him I'm fine. Temporary deafness is reducing my alertness level because I can't interact with his voiced questions. When will Greg get it?

A sharp pinch and the alien feeling of warm liquid rushing through my vein. _I don't need fluids, I'm fine._ I try to pull it out but I'm suddenly groggy. The ringing is getting louder as if I'm suddenly powerless to fight it off. I can still catch a glimpse of a mild sedative injected to the IV line sticking out of my right hand. That was uncalled for. I'm not combative or uncooperative. I'm just stuck in a world swallowed by a piercing ringing between my ears. I – I think I'm going to be sick now.

_**.**_

A brief visit to the A&amp;E – pointless, really, people seem to forget that I'm a doctor myself – a CT scan showed a hairline fracture to the skull – rest and quietness recommended – and Greg finally understands I can't hear a word he says. _Mercifully_, since it hasn't silenced him yet. Like a man who has suffered an emotional shock he keeps venting out as if I could read his lips or guess what goes on in his soul. _I can't._ Whenever really important he knows he needs to write it in a piece of paper, though.

'Time to go home', I mutter. He seems to understand my words, but disagrees with me.

"U can't b alone", he writes hastily and shows me.

_You're missing a few letters there, Greg!_ As to being on my own, I'm perfectly capable no matter how sudden this has been, thank you very much – I try to convey with a frown.

'I'm not taking up much needed beds in a hospital.'

He tries to appease me with calculated hand gestures. It's like he's trying to teach a puppy a new trick and it unravels my nerves.

'Twenty-four hours', I tell him. Only it's a white lie. In reality no one knows how long I'll be like this. Or even if forever.

"We can help", he writes now. I read it while upside down.

"U need to let us help U"

I frown. _Feeling a little needy there, Greg?_ I see him sigh. It's as if he's forgotten that I'm a soldier and a doctor. Couldn't have a more perfect match to deal with this, the way I see it.

DI Lestrade takes his phone to his ear. The screen was lit so he must be answering a phone call. Unfortunately it was too fast to let me read who the caller is. I hope it's the Yard. I want to go home and have a shower. I smell of smoke from the explosion, and heated metal, and spilt dried up blood that I'm confident is not even mine, and hospital grade's disinfectant. I want to put all this behind me and carry on as normally as I can.

Greg jolts down some more words for me, while he talks on the phone. It reads

"221B Baker Street. It's settled"

_Wait, what did I miss?_

_**.**_

221B smells of tea and fireplace ashes. It's a homely welcome and I look all around the living room to find out where Sherlock is. I can't find him, but Greg keeps talking. Sherlock must be in another room, probably in the kitchen. I move onto the small cluttered kitchen, carefully avoiding the chemical laboratory assembled on the formica side table, with samples and test tubes dangerously piled up to the edge. Again I find no signs of Sherlock. I move over to the kettle and touch it. It's still warm. Sherlock should be close by.

A hand on my arm and I jump, instinct pushing for a defence mechanism anger as I swiftly turn around and clutch my fist. _Sherlock._

_He scared me for a second._

His analytical gaze is upon me, calculating, secretive. I sustain his gaze with the same intensity, mesmerised by his method. _I'm his case right now._

'I'm okay, Sherlock', I speak (silently).

He nods. _He knows_, he seems to tell me.

He goes past me to the kettle and pours some of the smoking hot water in a mug. Actually, my old mug. I frown. I realise he's actually making me tea.

_I don't need his pity._

I carefully disregard his tea and grab a new mug out of the cupboard to make my own tea. Sherlock and Greg share a silent ominous look.

Greg hastily says his goodbyes – I can read it in his body language easily – before leaving 221B and me behind. Stubbornly I fake normality as I prepare my tea and take it to the rundown armchair by the lit fireplace, where I sit facing the warmth, and closing my eyes.

Effectively closing myself from the world. Two of my senses shut down, Sherlock is now forced to resume his normal day. I'll just sit here and...

I flinch as a stab of that piercing headache assaults me. _Please stop._ It brought tears to my eyes and a burning painful sensation to my throat. Maybe I whimpered or screamed, I wouldn't know. As it recesses and I open my eyes Sherlock is wide-eyed scrutinising me. There is a clear element of unconcealed panic in his honest expression, the distance mask shattered by the surprise. For a second I wonder if he looked like that upon knowing through Greg that I had been involved in a train crash. Only then I notice he's been holding up his violin and bow, playing softly I'd assume. I really miss hearing the warm melodies and that's enough to emotionally tip me over the edge at last. I hide my face hurriedly on my hands, struggling to hold myself together.

_It's going to be alright, John._

I can fill the silence with memories – _till they fade away one by one, and there's nothing left but emptiness._

_I know how __that__ feels._

I struggle to pull myself together at last. This is plain wrong. Whatever the future has in store for me, I'll take it on. I'll make good out of a bad situation.

I look up at Sherlock. He's talking on his phone. He's actually calling someone rather than texting, that's rare privilege, usually reserved for the most important cases.

Well, he did answer Greg's call earlier and I'm not an important reason. I guess all rules have exceptions, right?

_**.**_


	45. Chapter 45

_**. Second Half .**_

Quiet like a church mouse – I assume – Mrs Hudson has been upstairs to my old bedroom and got fresh beddings and the heating on for me. Quite incapable of letting me alone to my predicament as is my clearly expressed wish she has also left behind a tray of biscuits, tea and kettle.

_Tea won't fix me, Mrs H._

I find myself sighing and relaxing somewhat. I appreciate her caring, the connection in a lopsided reality where I'm frail and maladjusted.

I chew on a biscuit pensively, as I sit on the bedside. Can't live of Mrs H and Sherlock's generosity forever. If I stay like this – hopefully not, but if I do – I'll need to get used to this. Lots of people do.

My phone seems to be missing. Useless for phone calls, it still provides a helpful aid with text messages. I decide to go get it from downstairs.

I descend the stairs – that annoying step not creaking this time for all I can tell. I find Sherlock in the living room arguing with wide hand gestures with some mysterious guest. They both get startled by my arrival and tone down immediately. I realise the visitor is Mycroft Holmes. The way his ears are red I assume this has been far from a friendly family visit.

'Mycroft', I say out of an old habit of breaking the ice. I can see him saying my name back. Meantime he's looking at me with a carefully measured amount of combined interest and polite distance. Suddenly his head snaps back to Sherlock, that must have called him. A distant twirling of his faithful umbrella, mysterious wordings and he's ready to leave 221B. I glance at his baby brother. Sherlock's expression is dark. Hurriedly I glance back at Mycroft. So is his.

Behind Mycroft there's a pile of brown files marked "top secret" at the front. _Funny_, I thought some screenwriter had made that stamp up.

As Mycroft is leaving, I go to reach the files but Sherlock reaches them first and grabs them out of my reach.

_Not tonight, Sherlock. You don't mess with this soldier tonight._

I snatch the top file from his fingers and open it angrily. To my surprise I see a picture of an accident site I'd recognise forever more. I've just left it hours ago. Sherlock is investigating my case. Mycroft and Greg acting as backups. Slowly I look up. Seems like Sherlock has been waiting for me. He nods, shortly, with complicity.

I realise I feel exhausted. I think I'll retire early tonight.

_**.**_

It's at the imaginary sound of Sherlock's violin – I want to hold on to that memory and not allow it to fade away – that we arrive at the crime scene the next morning. Or should I say derailment site? All I experienced the day before comes back to me even if there's an eerie quietness in the landscape now. Only trained investigators, debris, and signs of the rescue teams passing by are visible, under the ground laden curtain of heavy dark smoke, just like a fog enveloping the land.

I follow Sherlock's footsteps on the frosty ground that I feel cracking underneath my feet, my friend is never really far away. I wonder what brought us here. Sherlock is as uncommunicative as ever, my circumstances hardly altering his ways.

It revolves my stomach to see the chaos left behind before. I'd rather not be here, but it's not an option.

_Business as usual at 221B._

Sherlock is typing away on his phone now. I stand comfortably by his side, hands united behind my back, surveying the landscape. Suddenly there's a slight nudge and I look down. Sherlock has pick pocketed me and he's holding my phone out. He's just texted me the start of a conversation.

John, I brought you here for a reason –SH

_Sorry, didn't hear you_, I state in writing the obvious, sarcastic. He rolls his eyes.

Focus, John –SH

_Okay, I'll take the bait. Go on, what's the reason?_

Revenge –SH

For you –SH

_This is temporary, Sherlock_

Temporary revenge, if you must –SH

I giggle, most inappropriately. Only Sherlock could be the one to refuse tiptoeing around my condition.

_What now?_

Come with me –SH

I'm still holding on to this first smile since the crash as I follow my good friend. I realise he thinks this was planned out. Terrorism act, then. But why this train? Was there someone of significant visibility and subjective importance riding this train? I look back on the passengers I assessed after the crash. I recognised no one. And if there really was a politician, a royal family member, a Mycroft-like person, it kept quiet of its position as the intended target. Which, at the time, was possibly the wisest stance.

Sherlock Holmes steps abruptly by the debris covered ground, takes a steep dive and kneels by a big piece of oily metal, smelling it as professionally as he can. _He's onto something. _Finally the detective glances at me. I can tell by his heavy expression that he detected signs of foul play. Explosives, most likely.

My voyage was doomed from the start. A ticking time bomb in the engine.

I take up my phone as soon as I realise Sherlock has picked his up. As expected a faithful deduction is produced.

Heat sensitive materials caused the explosion –SH

Once the process was initiated, there was no turning back –SH

I shiver; yes, I've been asking myself that a lot. If there was a clue, the slightest detail I should have picked up on after years as Sherlock Holmes' sidekick.

The mechanism was faulty. The explosion would have wiped out its trace –SH

A despicable death trap in motion, only too literally, and nothing could be done –SH

Just drop it. You've done beyond the call of duty, John –SH

I shake my head. _Not nearly enough, Sherlock._

His expression is patiently sad as he straightens himself. Back to the case, we seem to agree wordlessly.

To the Yard now –SH

We have a trap to lay to a bomber –SH

Lestrade won't like it –SH

_**.**_

Common sense would dictate that I shouldn't be here.

_I guess Sherlock's recklessness has rubbed off on me._

Greg, Sherlock and I are slowly making progress as we force our way inside a dirty rundown warehouse in the outskirts of London. I pretend not to notice that as Greg is in the lead as the legal representative of authority, Sherlock is letting himself fall back to have my back. My hearing is still null and has shown little signs of return.

Whichever comes to be, I'm grateful for Greg and Sherlock's protectiveness. At first it irked me. Now I can see it comes from a good place. _I would have done the same._

This is the bomb's assembly factory. Here it was built, and later it was sneaked inside a train full of innocent people, one former soldier and an anonymous figure of high profile. A bad combination, to all appearances.

Greg halts us with a brisk gesture. Silence has been on my side so far but now I stand powerlessly unaware of whatever Sherlock and Greg hear around us.

I take my phone out and show it to Sherlock, demanding an explanation. He denies me with a curt shake of his head.

Next thing they are both pushing me alongside them to take cover from sight behind a couple of massive wood crates. Immediately Greg uncocks his gun and Sherlock's eyes are shinning. I pull out my gun as well, feeling the excitement building.

As I see Sherlock tensing up by my side briskly, little shards of wood shower from the top the crate protecting us. I marvel at that. I never pondered silent gunshots before. They appear like nothing more than firecrackers to me right now, but I'll never forget what they are capable off.

_Once, it changed my entire life._

Greg gestures me to keep low as he and Sherlock are talking some plan out. _It's a bad plan_, I realise immediately, as I see Sherlock getting up and pretending to give himself up. All the while, Greg is peering out through the crates to keep a faithful loaded-gun backup to the mad detective. I have a gun too, and I vow to do the same.

Only before I can even aim the gun a sharp piercing blast of pain and sound blares through my injured brain. I flinch and, before I know it, I've just dropped my gun. I must have called attention upon Greg and I. Ruined the plan.

Forcing myself together I grab my gun from the dirty floor with shaking hands. Sound is coming back in waves, like an out of tune radio finding connection and losing it over and over again. It's making me nauseous.

Sherlock is pushed along to our side of the crates, gun to his head, surrounded by three men of the bomber's team. _Now you've done it, John._

'Let him go, or I'll shoot', I pretend I still hold some last shred of control.

Sherlock shakes his head minutely. _No, Sherlock._

'Leave it, John', he tells me. I can hear his words as if voiced from far. I can't help but to smile, as I missed sound, and my old way of life. Sherlock's eyes narrow, he's noticed. Now that I can hear – sort of, should improve over time – he's forcefully silenced.

And Greg? Suddenly – silly of me, took me this long to notice – I realise Greg is gone. Covering for us from afar.

'You didn't take into account the correct thermal capacity of the metal alloy, Chandler', Sherlock preaches like a school teacher. 'I don't think thermodynamics are your forte.'

I hide a smirk. That's Sherlock, alright. At the wrong end of a gun and preaching science learning.

'Sherlock...?' I start. _Is there a plan? Can you let me in?_

One of the men comes to grab my gun. I clutch it tighter.

'_Just drop it, John', _Sherlock leads me, clearly. I frown. _I won't._ He's nervously twitching his fingers by his side, on his right hand. Or maybe there is method. Old sign language. _Well, I can actually hear a bit now, Sherlock._ We should have thought of that before.

He's spelling "explosive".

_Oh._

I nod to both man, and pretend to hand over my gun. Only at the last minute I see Sherlock already diving off to the floor. I do the same as I drop my unlocked gun, setting it off as it hits the floor. In the explosive mixtures saturated air inside the warehouse a small chain reaction of smoke and electromagnetic sparkles sets off, escalating by the second...

'Run!' Greg snatches us, pulling us on a tight run to the nearest exit.

_**.**_

The warehouse still stands despite several minor explosions that stopped only shortly ago. The police and rescuers are finally evacuating the three bombers team, straight to jail. None of them are seriously injured, not in the least as they caused others at the train. Mycroft will follow the accusation and immediate trial.

_Temporary revenge,_ as Sherlock put it.

'Thanks, Sherlock.'

He's the one playing deaf after my sincere gratitude, he doesn't like to hear these things. According to Sherlock there's no debt if he's done what I'd have done for him as well. Equals from the start. That's a mad man's way of seeing the world and I like it.

'Wanna go back to 221B?' he asks me.

_Yes._ 'Everything but the train for a while.'

'Well, statistically, the likelihood of—'

I cut him short, with an exasperated sigh: 'Fine, we'll take the train.'

A little adventure suits us just fine.

_**.**_


	46. Chapter 46

_(A/N) Question: "Why On Earth Are All Your Original Character Named Chandler?" Long story - and here it goes. I hate naming throw-away characters. I was going to use crime novel writer's names to spare me from scrapping about searching for adequate names every single time. I was even going to insert Doyle at some point, just for fun. But it was getting confusing and drawing my attention away from what mattered, I realised early on. So I decided to repeat Chandler a second time. No one complained, so I went for a third. After that, it became an inside joke to me._

_Now, I've been reminded I've been leaving Mary behind, it's true. It's because I like in this collection to explore a more pinpoint dynamic between Sherlock and John. Still, when I found this oldie in a green notebook in my shelves, I knew I had to shape it into this collection. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

A cab pulls up in front of the Watsons residence. From the first floor window I can see a highly energised tall consulting detective practically jumps out of it, runs the small path to the front door and rings the bell in five seconds flat.

Mary will get the door for our impatient friend.

"Hi, Sherlock!" I can hear her say downstairs.

"Where's John?" Sherlock demands at once, tense, excited, lively. "I need his help on a case!"

I'm sure it's a proof of friendship that Sherlock has managed to come by our house instead of just marching on to the crime scene or head first into danger, and texting me the meeting point as an afterthought.

_I'll always come and he knows it._

"Good morning to you too, Sherlock", I can almost hear Mary's tiny smirk. "I'll tell John. He's showering. Wanna come in?"

That must be sarcasm again. I doubt Sherlock would stay put at the door.

"Wait for John? We can't wait, Mary! There's a case, _a case_!"

_Must be a good one too._

"Well, he still needs to get dressed first, right?" Even Mary seems to know that in his excitement, sometimes talking to Sherlock demands patience.

"That's a waste of time!"

"Not to me, I like my husband clean." I'll bet anything that Mary is inwardly laughing her socks off. Our endearing mad genius is sometimes an overgrown child.

I hear Sherlock's bustling footsteps starting upstairs, then stopping.

"Sherlock!" She must have halted him.

"I'm not wasting any more time! I need to inform John of the particulars of the case!"

"He's in the shower, Sherlock." _Getting dressed already, actually._

"So?"

She sighs. "It's one of those things he won't like, Sherlock." I wonder if he even anticipated that.

"I've seen him naked before", he protests at once.

I'm fairly sure Sherlock knows how that sounds. Innocent one second, manipulative the next. Really an overgrown child.

"Well, that makes two of us", she doesn't skip a beat. "Let him get dressed anyway, Sherlock, or he won't be pleased."

His answer comes across as suspicious as tentative: "Are you saying that he wouldn't go with me?" Then he brushes it off: "Anyway, why is he taking so long?"

"You've arrived a minute ago."

"He spent three years in army camps in Afghanistan. How long are showers in a desert? Oh, it's _you_, Mary, isn't it? You got him used to... _this_!"

"Used to enough hot water? Yeah, definitely my fault." _Sarcasm._ Sherlock might have missed it altogether. "Wasn't he the same in Baker Street? And don't" she rushes to say "tell me you timed his showers then. That's stalking."

He grunts. In a softer voice he asks: "How else was I supposed to know if his injured shoulder was giving him trouble?"

_Oh._ Never realised that. It was... _nice_, I suppose. But anyway why would he care? He's... _Sherlock_.

Mary points out, more softly, I can hardly hear them now: "You could have asked."

"He wouldn't have answered."

"No, that's John alright."

I realise I've been standing by the bedroom door listening in on a conversation I could have been a part of. This is not right, and it's silly too. I reach for the knob and head downstairs.

'There you are, John!' Sherlock seems to be resuming his impatience as he lays eyes on me. 'We're already three minutes behind schedule!'

'What are you on about?'

He rolls his eyes, to him it's obvious. 'You took two extra minutes in your shower today.'

'You timed it? Well, that's...'

'Stalking, yes, Mary told me', he lets on with an honesty that is painful in its rawness to me.

'I was going to say _thorough_, but Mary is probably right as well.' I smile. 'You could have come up', I know I need to ease him, to make sure he knows he's a part of the Watson's house as well, and he shouldn't behave any different than he would have done in Baker Street. _In theory._

'Mary wouldn't let me', he complains. Mary rolls her eyes behind him.

'It's not like you haven't seen me naked before.' My turn for an eye roll.

'I told her that', Sherlock insists.

Mary has started blinking nonstop. I rewind our conversation in my head and finally notice the red flags. Well,_ he has seen me naked_. I realise she didn't quite take him seriously before.

Before I can talk, Sherlock seems to sense that something is off and loyally tries to help me out: 'It was for a case, Mary.'

I frown, turning on him. 'What case? There was no case with me naked in it, Sherlock!' I'm fairly sure he realises I'm angry now.

He pretends to be all aloof. 'Fine, it was _after_ a case, Mary', he corrects his previous statement.

_Damn right it was!_

Mary is giggling now in face of our antics, as she sweetly bites her lower lip, amused. I glance at Sherlock, angrily.

'It was that time my wounded shoulder seized up after I fell on the Thames waters, chasing those counterfeiters.' I grimace sincerely. 'We went back to Baker Street and I had the bad judgement of showering to get rid of the sludge. By then I was half frozen, I guess. The hot water seized my left shoulder all of a sudden in a painful spasm and I couldn't move my arm at all. That tripped me off balance and I took a dive on the wet floor tiles of the bathroom. I think I even hit my head on the way down. It was extremely embarrassing. Sherlock heard the noise and came in to help me.' I look over at the detective but he doesn't seem to want to take the lead in the conversation. For that matter, he doesn't seem to be in a hurry anymore either. I carry on. 'At that point I was both wet and shivering in cold, so Sherlock helped me to the nearest room - his - to get me under covers. Try and explain _that_ to the paramedics. Me, naked, in my flatmate's bed. Don't know where _those_ rumours started...' I shake my head quietly. 'I didn't even think about it. Not with the headache and stiff shoulder.'

Sherlock finally added: 'Then Mrs Hudson came along to offer a cup of tea to the paramedics.'

Mary's trying hard not to laugh, still she looks like she wouldn't interrupt our recount for nothing in this world.

I recall: 'Mrs Hudson just stood there, staring at me lying there, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. All the while I was trying to cover myself with a bed sheet for privacy.'

'The paramedics were hooking you up on a blood pressure measuring device, John.'

'And shooting muscle relaxants into my shoulder, one after the other.'

'Well, the first two clearly hadn't worked.'

'You make it sound worse than it was, Sherlock.'

'They were talking about knocking you out to cease the muscle response and declutch your shoulder at last.'

'Paramedics are always so dramatic. All I needed was some rest in privacy and I'd be fine.'

'That and the third muscle relaxant shot', Sherlock notes.

'That was because those paramedics couldn't get to the right muscle layer in the first two tries, I always suspected.'

'None of the two was too happy when I snatched the syringe off their hands and handed it to you.'

'Well, it's malpractice to let the patient stab himself with the drugs', I ponder quietly. 'I remember they were cursing half as much as I was by then.'

'And so was I', Sherlock assumes naturally.

'And _that_ I found deeply frightening.'

'I've always admired Mary for not complaining about your foul cursing when in drastic circumstances.'

_I wouldn't go so far as to call it that..._ 'Well, it surfaces sometimes. Besides, Mary has a few of her own as well.' I look over at Mary. She's got a don't-you-dare undeniable look on her face.

'_Just drop it, John_', Sherlock grills me. 'Drop all her secrets. It's only fair I get to know them too!' He's going for manipulative child genius again.

It's me between those crazy two. I can't help but giggle.

_**.**_


	47. Chapter 47

_A/N: The old Flashbacks Overuse warning is again aplicable. –csf_

* * *

_**. First Part .**_

Sherlock Holmes is a man of many talents. One of them, as I'm soon discovering, isn't piloting an aircraft over the Devon coast. Still, he's doing an okay job, I guess. I'd have more faith in the man taking the commands if he wasn't looking slightly queasy.

He really shouldn't have boasted about his flying skills. He even alleged he could twirl the two-engine, single-compartment, recreational category, small aircraft. I told him he couldn't. He insisted he could, easily. I had to stop him from proving his so-called skills.

He went on to say _others_ can't fly. He means _me_. Good point. I told him I never needed to. I was often too busy keeping casualties of war alive in the cargo holder of the military aircraft, as we evacuated to base. Sherlock went oddly silent after that. Either sulking or distracted, I really couldn't tell. In any case, he stopped nagging me.

The only sound piercing the silence now is the rhythmic pulse of the engine, steady and vital, as we are carried above the sea shore in a small metal container with wings attached to it.

_We nicked it from a smugglers __lair__. _That happened after Sherlock and I managed to sneak in, and gather evidence of the operatives and trading. And, of course, after a good old-fashioned chasing and shooting sequence. That's when I got shot. Yes, again. I do get shot a lot. Far too many times._ Any time would be one too many._

'John?'

I stir in reflex to my name being called out sharply by Sherlock. I was miles away again, gaze lost on the fluffy white clouds outside the cockpit window. _Peaceful._

'Are we there yet?' I mutter, slurring a bit.

'Almost' he assures me, confidently. I wouldn't be so sure. He's been having a texting fit on his phone. Probably with Lestrade at the Yard. I don't think he called in the cavalry, I don't think he needs to. That would be big brother, Mycroft. Sherlock favours keeping his brother out of his business. They act like they can hardly stand to be in the same room, but I don't believe it for a second.

_If something happens to me because I was shot, then Mycroft will be the one picking up the pieces._

_I wonder if he ever had to do that before._

I mustn't get morbid. It's hardly even hurting anymore. I know I lost some blood, possibly more than advisable, but they don't get rid of Captain John H. Watson just like that.

_Oh, wait. Actually they do. _It has happened before.

'John.'

I look over at Sherlock. He looks worried now. I guess he figured out that I know he can't really do the flips he was boasting about.

_Maybe he can. He is Sherlock, after all._

'John, you need to stay focused. We're almost there.'

I nod. What he says makes sense.

I try to focus on what got us into this mess in the first place.

_**.**_

'It's called the Sun Disk, John. The name hardly portrays the importance of the archaeological finding made in Devon by a couple of students on a field trip with their school. It may still come to be called the finding of the decade, pending on proof of authenticity.'

Sherlock is frantically pacing up and down 221B's carpet as I have taken my usual place at the armchair, by the lit fireplace. I turn over the page on the local Devon paper he's just given me, with a contrasting quietness. 'What is taking so long, then?'

'The disk was stolen from the experts in charge of the examination. It was securely locked away in a museum's vault, totally inaccessible to the public. It disappeared during the night. Expert theft according to the Yard, by the lack of clues left behind.

I nod, slowly. 'Who'd want it, Sherlock?'

He shrugs. 'Every thief around. It can be sold to unscrupulous private collectors around the world for a small fortune. And then there's the treasure legend.'

'Treasure?' I repeat. 'Are we even sure the artefact is genuine, and not just some school kids' elaborate prank?'

'Only one way to find that out now, right?' he asks me with a knowledgeable smirk that is both defiant and warm.

'I'll get an overnight bag packed', I gather, getting up energetically. _He's hooked me up on his case already._

_**.**_

'Good thing you are the chosen one, John.'

I look over at Sherlock. He's looking less queasy now. More in control of the aircraft too. He's keeping himself distracted by talking to me.

_Putting me on is more like it._

'The prophecy, you mean', I take a little too long to understand. 'I didn't plan to. It just sort of happened. Anyway, what did I win? Peace and prosperity? Eternal life? Oh, wait, eternal life may still come in handy.' I smirk.

'John.' He fails to duplicate my humour.

'I'll be fine, Sherlock', I promise him. I should know, right? I'm the expert here, in more senses than one.

He nods, as a man who's trying to convince himself as much as me.

_Sherlock is starting to look queasy again._

He's also back at typing secret messages on his phone again. Multitasking as he holds the aircraft commands in the other hand.

_Rude!_ I thought we were having a conversation here.

I can't be bothered to protest though.

_**.**_

We arrive stealthily at the ostentatious property set on a cliff, overlooking the sea. Sherlock and I have forgone our usual looks in order to best fulfill our crime. Today we are burglars, breaking and entering in order to retrieve what previous criminal hands have seized. Sherlock is convinced there is no other way, perhaps even a more legal way.

Greg Lestrade from New Scotland Yard needs to keep his distance and not become associated with a plan that breaks the law. That means we have no backup available.

_That never stopped us before._

Greg is also slightly concerned that we are about to force our way into a dangerous smugglers lair. I expect the house to be heavily guarded, both by private security guards and fire power.

What Sherlock and I are about to do places our lives at deep risk.

_It's what we do._

We've been doing some free rock climbing at the jagged edged rocks of the almost vertical cliff, all the way from a small cove with a sandy beach and swirling waters, murky and mysterious. As I'm hanging onto the top rocks I realise they look as old as the world itself.

'Come along, John!'

I smile to myself; Sherlock is being as impatient as ever. He's also handing out a hand to help me reach the top, where he squatted down to push me up.

_**.**_


	48. Chapter 48

_A/N: The flashbacks continue, intertwining present and past. –csf_

* * *

_**. Last Part .**_

The Sun Disk is glowing under the afternoon's sun, filtering through the tall windows, when Sherlock and I share a look. This is it. Following Sherlock and Greg's intelligence information we found the stolen ancient artefact in a strong house by the cliff. It's time to take it back, that is to say, smuggle it out of the smuggler's lair. Return it, so the whole world can see it on a museum, and let people study what it stood for, learn its silenced lessons. I reach closer to the curious piece in respectful awed moves.

The unmistakable sound of a gun's safety being knocked off and I jolt and turn around before I reach the golden surface. _We've been caught._ My heart drops at the sight of a gun, barely touching Sherlock's dark curls. Cold, precise, steady in the hands of one of the smugglers. Sherlock is frozen on the spot, his icy eyes remain defiant, there's even a hint of a smirk as he slowly raises his hands in surrender.

'Who are you?' the gunman asks, suspicious. _Good, that's one advantage on our side, their curiosity as to our motives._

'We're here to take the Sun Disk', Sherlock tells him. _Sherlock!_

The gun trembles, as the man is taken aback by my friend's blunt honesty. He didn't seem to expect it. _Nor did I._

'You ain't getting it!' the man decides on the spot, or so it seems. He seems uncomfortable now, even if he's still and always the one holding the gun. Sherlock teases the young gunman further at once:

'Why would you care? It's not even yours!'

'It is now!'

'You just want the end prize!' Sherlock carries on like an annoying five year old. The smuggler halts, but in the end admits it. True enough, I gather.

_Where are you going with this, Sherlock?_

'You're passing on a solid golden plated disk, a valuable artefact, in order to attain a bigger juicier treasure.'

'No', the man says, surprising us. Sherlock frowns, under the constant gun threat. 'What, then?'

'That's not what the prophecy states.'

'Excuse me?'

'That's not the end prize for the chosen people that fulfil the prophecy terms.'

Out of abnegation or entrepreneur spirit, this smuggler seems genuinely convinced of what he states. As a doctor I know better than to expect magic to happen due to the presence of a talisman, or associated with some sort of ritualistic practise. _Part of me wished it could only be that simple._

'Well, you've got it wrong', Sherlock carries on, petulant as ever.

'Got what wrong?' he takes the bait.

_Sherlock! We're not here to help them! Next thing you're going to offer help, why won't you?_

As if he heard my thoughts and foreseen my objections he glances at me. His expression seems clouded to me. I can tell he's making up some plan as we go on, and so far he's got just about nothing. He's desperately trying to buy time for the both of us.

'What do you mean?' The man comes back. _He has taken Sherlock's bait._

_**.**_

'John?'

I blink slowly as I turn to face my friend through the fog filling my vision. 'Hm?'

'We will be landing in a small private airport, not far away. It's all been taken care of.'

Good to know.

'Not enjoying our flight?' I tease him. 'The pilot is a bit green, but he's very keen.'

Sherlock smirks slightly to sustain my joke. He's holding on to the commands with little confidence. So far it's been smooth gliding, landing the small aircraft is something entirely different.

I hope Mycroft has thought of summoning at least a fire engine to the crash site – _I mean_: _landing site._

Feels like a long time ago that I held the Disk in my hands.

_**.**_

The darkened cave, washed by incoming sea water and foam from the rhythmic waves, smelled of salt and sea weeds. Slowly the tide is rising, as I'm sure none of us fails to notice. Whatever the plan for Sun Disk involves, we need to make our exit soon. This rock cave seems to be only accessible for a short time at low tide. It took us quite a dangerous trekking route to get here, and now we stand in a small inside recess in the cliff itself, quite a few yards above the sea.

'Sherlock, we have a plan, right?' I ask of my friend in a tight whisper.

He shushes me at once._ I bet he's just trying to keep me guessing._

Under the coercion of the faithful gun, Sherlock's been carrying the Disk as if our salvation depended on it. _I guess it does._

'What now?' They press my friend at once. The two men. The leader and the younger gunman that spotted us in the mansion. So far Sherlock has been their ally in order to find this special location where the mystery of the Sun Disk unfolds. Now we all wait eagerly for his lead.

Sherlock halts and looks around in a quiet analysis of the site. Immediately he settles for the sea washed opening, filling the space with the only natural light. Our captor gives him the head start he wishes for, but at the same time they push me closer to the gun in an implicit demand to hurry us up. _Any time now, Sherlock._

The detective turns back to us abruptly. His gaze lingers on the steel gun that is now touching my head. It's with an unusual subdued voice that he explains: 'It is fairly simple. This is a natural grotto. In here remain all over the walls faint signs of ancient human occupation of a periodical fashion, most likely connected with some sort of religious ritual. The rich oral legends were traditionally passed on from one generation to the next in this area, long after they had lost much of their original meaning.'

'What are you on about?' He's angrily inquiring. He's confused and impatient.

'Makes a nice light reading if you're interested, one day. I read all three volumes on the train ride here. John, on the other hand, chose to sleep', he scolds me out of the blue.

_We travelled through the night, Sherlock, after you picked me up from a long shift at the clinic. Some of us actually require the need for some sleep on a daily basis._

'You're wasting our time', the leader protests, levelling the gun with Sherlock. I find myself stepping forward to try and protect him even before I realise what I'm doing. Sherlock halts me with a sharp look. _So, this is a part of his plan._

'On the contrary, I'll save you time. Here's what needs doing.' Sherlock steps aside and points to the foamy water swirling into the cave and swishing by our feet. 'It flows naturally into the centre of the cave. Throughout the centuries it has changed what once was a richly decorated pagan praying scene into a darkened natural landscape. Nature has reclaimed its belongings.'

'Are you telling us it's all gone?' The man is angered again. The gun in his hand is shaking perilously. I try to step forward. This time not even Sherlock's warning will hold me back.

Instead, both guns are aimed to me. Sherlock's green eyes widen. 'Wait!' he demands at once. 'It's not all lost. The one area of this cave that has not changed with time, luckily, is the one we need right now.'

I smile as I see through his deduction. It's amazing as always. 'The ceiling', I verbalise. 'The sea water reaches the cave but doesn't completely flood it. The salt water level can only get so high, even on full tide.

Sherlock nods. 'And where else does the Sun belong?' he opens his hand in a wide appreciative gesture.

The four of us look up to the ragged rocky ceiling to the cave. A precise slot is visible just above Sherlock's head, one that neither I nor the armed men had seen before. In the charm of a true magician, Sherlock had placed himself right bellow it.

_**.**_

Sherlock's yelp of surprise raises me from my superficial slumber. As I come to, I hear the distinctive footsteps of a third person in the small aircraft. We are not alone in our escape. The one man that got away from us, the younger of the smugglers, has followed us and hidden himself within the cargo. He has waited for a favourable chance to overthrow our escape. Immediately I try to get up and face him. Before I can even move I'm already cringing and holding on to my stomach. Pain and blood loss taking away any chance I hold of fighting back.

With a fast glance at me, Sherlock demands hastily: 'Take the controls, John, I've got it!'

_I don't want to fly the plane!_

Sherlock has already jumped off his seat, the airplane growls and starts diving as the commands are left loose to their own devises. With no second thoughts I hurry to grab the controls and steady the plane. _It's a computer game, just that, John,_ I lie to myself. Not convincingly enough.

_You may want to hurry up, Sherlock!_

_**.**_

Fearing some sort of trick – I wouldn't put it past Sherlock either – they chose me to bring the Disk to its intended prophecy-fulfilling location. I take the heavy smooth-surfaced disk from Sherlock in my hands and stretch it overhead to the cave's low ceiling. As I push it into the slot, suddenly it seems to flow off my hands into place.

'It's magnetic and there is a polar opposite magnet embedded in the rock up there', Sherlock tells me, as he senses my surprise. 'I realised it as it briefly drawn the gun's aim towards it when I took it up.'

I nod, sharply. Something more important troubling me. _What now?_

As if he just understood all my thoughts, Sherlock tilts his head to something behind him. I follow the direction to see a faint path of reflected light reflected back and to the ground through the darkened cave as a light beam. _The medal is slightly concave, _concentrating the small portion of daylight that floods in through the opening and directing it in a beam back towards the opening and Sherlock's shoes, straight into a small recess between the jagged rocks. It feels like being in some sort of Indiana Jones' story. _No one will ever believe our tale._

Sherlock and I are roughly pushed back by the two men that dive towards the spot. I glance at Sherlock. They have the so-called treasure. _We are dispensable now._

Not if the great Sherlock has a saying in it.

In a fluid motion Sherlock grabs the Sun Disk. Immediately the men turn to him, pointing their guns back. Before they can take action, Sherlock adjusts precisely the disk and the light is aimed back at the two crooks, that shy away from the blinding beam of light at once. _Not before one of them locks the aim of his gun, ready to pull the trigger._

Sherlock won't budge. Instead he's ready to throw use the disk he's holding as a striking weapon. _He might get one, but not both._

**_._**

'Sherlock, I don't know how to land this thing!' I let him know, tensely. I rather be the one on one-to-one combat, right now.

'Just follow my leads and you'll be fine, John!' he tells me, confidently, and ducks from a well-aimed punch.

'I can go there and help!' I turn to glance at them, but the moment I let go of the aircraft commands it goes into a vibration fit. The whole metal casing growls, as if threatening to break apart by the seams. I grab it tight yet again. Tighter, even.

'It's alright, John', Sherlock pretends to the hurt person wanting to join a brawl fight; me. _I forgot about that too._

'Sherlock, I…'

'_Just drop it, John._'

'What…?' Then I realise what he wants. 'I can't, you'll—'

'Do it!' He hastily talks over my complaints. I realise he's got a plan. And I follow his lead – as always.

I drop the plane, that takes on an abrupt dive as I strain the commands. I can see through the cockpit window the geometrical patchwork of farmlands crisscrossed by winding roads, approaching us faster and faster.

I hear the muffled pained expression of our stowaway smuggler, tripped off balance by the sudden nose dive and slammed against the back of the cabin. Sherlock, as the plan's mastermind, as taken careful precautions, holding on tight as I strained the commands. Even in the unsteady floor he's taking control of the fallen enemy and securing his weapons. Sherlock's plan has just saved us.

The significant variation of pressure gets to my head. I feel lightheaded and sick. Worse, out of my control, I'm blacking out.

_I could use your help in here, Sherlock._

We're approaching the ground, too fast and too steep. Still a tad away from the small private airport Sherlock has secured for us.

'_John!_' I can hear the strain in my friend's trembling voice as I'm falling into the darkness.

_**.**_

They say it goes as if in freeze frame motion. The moment you realise a shot is going to be fired and your friend – _best friend_ – is going down.

I have the previous experience to say that it's not so poetic.

It's not an artist's well-balanced sharp-contrasts colourful freeze-frame. Time slows down, yes, as a feeling of dread fills you up. The weight of an undeniable definite fate is not yet fully set when the mindless wordless decision is embedded in every fibre. _It's only right._ The world needs Sherlock. _I will not let this happen_. I willingly stepped in front of my friend. I don't regret it. I know already I never will.

I didn't necessarily mean to get hurt in the process, although I accepted fully the risk involved. I just couldn't push us both out of the way of a speeding bullet fast enough. In truth, I need to face that a part of me must have known that the game was doomed from the start. I'm too accustomed to guns not to have sensed it somehow. It didn't deter me.

_This time it was within my control, if Sherlock was to get shot. Again._

And I'm definitely not expecting gratitude or recognition.

What I did, I did out of the instinctive knowledge that Sherlock would be there for me if I made it through. We don't talk about these things, Sherlock and I, we don't coordinate decisions, but I know enough of the warm heart Sherlock keeps locked in hiding from the world.

I know he'd help me out and back home. He's never failed me so far.

_**.**_

'One... Two... Three...

_Come on, John!'_

Sherlock is sat at the aircraft's controls, holding them tensely. I look over my shoulder to him and immediately return to the man lying flat on the cargo area's floor.

Feels like old days, in a much smaller and claustrophobic setting. Also, a more unstable ground, given the small size of the aircraft fighting crossed winds for our second attempt at landing. The first one having been aborted by me, on the nick of time, for I couldn't vouch for it in the state I was at the time. I had a breather – as deep as this nasty gunshot allowed me – and Sherlock came to take my place at the controls.

I take it back. Compared to me, Sherlock is a natural at this flying business.

'For crying out loud, John! Brace yourself and ignore him!' Sherlock tells me sharply as I continue to stabilise the smuggler. He knows it will be less than a smooth landing.

'I can't, I'm a doctor!'

He rolls his eyes as he glances at me over his shoulder. 'And a soldier, that's why I brought you along, so will you leave him there?'

'No', I maintain, tensing for the imminent impact.

'And _of_ _course_ you got yourself shot instead, John!'

I feel a stab of hurt with his words, but I immediately push it away. The Baker Street genius is everything but a social genius.

The impact with the hard ground shakes the whole plane. For a couple of seconds everything turns black and sound recedes deafeningly. As I push through for a comeback, pressing down on my own wound, light sparks still swimming in front of my eyes, Sherlock is pulling and pressing all sorts of buttons and leavers, halting our borrowed aircraft.

'I wasn't fast enough', I recognise between gritted teeth, returning to the topic at hand. 'It's not like I wanted to get shot.' _Why am I excusing myself?_

'You're a handful of trouble, John', he warmly.

'Next time fly away without me', I dare him.

He grumps something unintelligible under his breath. I giggle under my breath as I lean back to the cold metal wall in search of support. Again darkness is swirling threateningly close, trying to swallow me. Before I can let go into the sweet honey trap, I feel Sherlock's supportive hands reaching under my armpits, aiming to push me into my feet.

'There are rescuers outside waiting for us, John. Mycroft has mobilised the best in the area to meet us here.'

I look up to my friends honest green eyes.

'How did you manage that?'

The shakes his head, keeping his secrets to himself. 'It's nothing for you to worry about, John.'

'Send them away', I plead in a voice that comes out frail. He seems thrown aback by my request. I don't want to be seen by brave men, heroes for what they do, in this poor state, held up by Sherlock's faithful support and the last remnants of will-power I can gather.

'They'll want to see the man that fulfilled an ancient prophecy, John.'

'The disk is now lost in the sea water, Sherlock. It fell with the leader of the smugglers.'

'I saw it', he points out. 'I guess that means that there will only be one. Or maybe one day the Sun Disk will be found again.'

'There was no treasure, it was useless', I point out the common-sense conclusion. 'If ever there really was one, it has long since been washed away by the currents.'

'I guess we'll never know. Although I recall you mentioning eternal wealth or life.'

'I was joking, Sherlock', I frown at him, as he helps me off the plane in small unstable steps. Immediately paramedics are rushing towards us. _Mycroft must be also on his way, I'd bet._

Sherlock helps me over to them, as he mumbles over his breath something that sounded to me: 'I'll never let you do that again, John'.

_And I'll never let you tell me you know how to fly an aircraft, Sherlock._

**_._**

* * *

_2nd A/N: Thanks for the help in pointing out my spelling errors, and my sincere apologies. I cannot describe how tired (and stubborn) I was yesterday while typing and piecing together assorted bits of paper. (My stories often grow out of bits of paper.) I could never understand how I always misspell "steel" when I'm tired. (Sorry!) I hope things are a bit better after the corrections. Thanks for bearing through it. -csf_


	49. Chapter 49

_**.**_

'John?'

'Yeeaahh...' I prolong the sound, sensing that I'm really not going to like what is to come.

'I need you to help me with an experiment.'

'Nooo...' I prolong my negative, still relying both on instinct and experience. Sherlock Holmes is a great man, but like all great men, he's also a dangerous one. Sometimes even despite his best intentions. And he's no less dangerous when he's playing mad scientist at a homely Baker Street.

I make a beeline to my old armchair, taking a seat _carefully_ – one never knows, I could be walking into the said experiment just by sitting down on my own chair. Nothing is safe ground in Baker Street. _I wouldn't have it any other way._

Sherlock is piercing me with his light metallic eyes. 'You know I could just go and grab your field uniform myself, John.'

'My _what_?' My voice shoots out to a high pitched screech that is fairly undignified for an army veteran who's seen the war without as much as a squeak. Only Sherlock Holmes could throw me off the deep end so instantaneously.

'You heard me, John! I need your uniform, the one with the camouflage print, not the...' he gestures vaguely mid-air '...the medal-y one.'

I freeze into an incredulous state, stiff in my comfortable armchair. _Just close my eyes, count to ten, breathe deeply._ 'How do you even know I have in London a uniform, Sherlock? I've never worn it since I left Afghanistan. It's stored with moth balls. I have no reason to take it out. You have no reason to ever have seen it.'

Sherlock shrugs, but his pondered gaze is set intensely on me denouncing the lie of his careless ways. I square my shoulders even harder, lock my jaw, defy him with a dark look.

_Don't you dare. It's off-limits, Sherlock._

He dares. 'I'm a consulting detective, John. "Detective", right?' he points out as if nothing can be safe from a detective's curiosity. 'The camouflage one?' he insists.

_I should have known! Good grief; I sigh. _Trying to be understanding, I ask: 'Why that one in particular?'

'John, must I explain everything?' he eludes.

'In this instance; yes.' I face him straight on. He smirks. No point in telling Sherlock that impersonating an army officer is illegal, unethical and plain wrong. 'It won't fit you', I add, trying to make him talk.

'You're too short, I've not failed to notice that.'

_You're threading on thin ice here, Sherlock._

'Right. So you wanted to see it, not wear it, Sherlock.'

'Hm', he agrees, suddenly all airily. 'I want to see you wearing it, John.'

_Me? _'No.'

'It's for science, John.'

_I can't believe it._ 'Still no', I state with dignity.

'It's going to be for two minutes and you don't even have to go outside', he lets on just as if he had heard a Yes instead of a No.

'And yet again: no.'

'Alright', he suddenly appears to conceit. 'I guess the medal-y one will have to do.'

'No way.'

'Fine, you can take the medals off if you fear they'll get damaged.'

I glare at him. _He's trying to goad my curiosity along._

'I won't take them off.' _Damn, my mistake_; I've just admitted there's actually a chance I'll wear my special events army captain's uniform. I grasp at straws: 'Can't, Sherlock, I would need to fill out a special requirement and have it approved. I'm retired now.'

My friend's eyes narrow, clouding somewhat.

'_Just drop it, John_', he tells me, despite a softer tone of voice. 'You're still Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.' Getting up from his armchair he collects some papers of the desk and hands them out. 'I'm quite certain you don't need to fill out a form to wear the uniform indoors, but I've got the paperwork anyway. Mycroft managed to speed things along. I've even signed it for you.'

'You mean you signed my name as me.' _Forgery._

He shrugs. _Menial details._ 'Just hurrying things along, John', he claims naturally.

These papers are the proof that Sherlock's aim has been for my special uniform all along. He went on about my fatigues and my medals to throw me off scent. Trust the mad genius to always go about things the hard way.

I guess my curiosity is getting the best of me. I look at the papers he's holding out and without checking them (it hardly matters if it is a bluff or not) I finally give in.

I want to understand Sherlock's interest in my uniform.

Probably he needs to identify a John Doe officer that is the victim of a crime, or catch some identity theft scam artist. Could be anything with Sherlock.

'Two minutes', I remind him.

'Fine', he accepts way too fast, surprising me. 'The medal-y one', he reminds me.

It feels like walking into a trap willingly. I shake my head, trying hard to disguise a smile, and go upstairs to dig out my uniform of an old camouflage duffle bag tagged "Capt. WATSON".

I take my time getting inside the old uniform. Respectfully I pinch every button to place, pull my sleeves down, straighten the collar.

The man staring back at me in the mirror is no longer the quiet unassuming John London is used to. It's not just the uniform, it's what comes along with it. What is edged into my skin now, deep into my soul. Proud, honourable memories, but also serious, demanding times. It comes with a metaphorical baggage I'll never turn away from.

Sherlock will never know that. He'll just see I can still fit into it nicely. He might even come to notice that my shoulders are prouder and straighter, my jaw line is set on a resolute expression, the shine in my eyes is determined. He won't know what my stern expression hides.

_I'm a Captain without a team; a Soldier without a battle._

There's a polite knock on the door, I realise I've been lost pondering my own reflection for far too long. Sherlock will think I'm a self-absorbed vain man now. I shouldn't have agreed with this in the first place.

I go to open the door in decided movements. 'What now?' Captain Watson demands, a bit too authoritarian, as it slips out of me.

Sherlock shrugs naturally, still in the corridor. 'That's it. Just wanted to see your medals, what you had been awarded.'

I blink. 'All of this to see the honours pinned to my uniform?'

'Yes', he maintains. Still he won't leave the corridor.

I turn away. 'Your two minutes are up, I'll meet you downstairs.' He accepts with no arguments, going downstairs at a tranquil pace.

_I still don't get it._

_Not for the first time either._

On the bottom of my duffle bag I find a small velvety bag. I hadn't touched it in ages. I take it out and weight it on my hand respectfully. I didn't let Sherlock see this last medal. To be honest, I've only seen it once myself, and caught up in the emotional whirlwind it carried I immediately shoved it back into the dark recesses of the velvet bag. Where it belongs. Not in me. I'm not the hero it promises. I only did what I had to do. If I saved lives – I admit I did – they weren't enough. A true hero would have managed more. He wouldn't need to carry all these painful failures of mine.

The man reflected by the wardrobe mirror isn't looking proud and sharp anymore. He's looking much more like the frazzled mess I'm feeling inside.

I hastily remove the uniform as if it were burning me now. As I gently fold it back into the bag I realise at last that Sherlock didn't come to see what honours my uniform carried. He came in search of the one that wasn't there. The one that he must have known about – through documents gathered by Mycroft, or by violating my privacy and going through my army stuff – and realised I've never fully accepted it.

_I couldn't, Sherlock. I'm not a real hero._

Back to my everyday civilian clothes I return to 221B's main floor. Sherlock's in the kitchen and he glances up to me from the cacophony of science glassware spread on his kitchen table. He looks fully engaged as if my uniforms and medals were things of the past now – _I couldn't agree more_ – and yet I need to hide my smirk. _That distillation of the sample's contents won't happen anytime soon with the Bunsen burner off, Sherlock._

I gather the newspaper folded on the opposite corner of the table and head back to my armchair.

I know Sherlock is keeping an eye out on me. I know I'm still his puzzle at the moment. I'm more interesting than a crime scene sample right now. And I know Sherlock is terrible at multitasking when his brain is fully engaged elsewhere.

I can't offer him the answers that are still painful for me to admit, but I can appreciate my friend's mad intrusive tactless _caring_.

When it comes to it, Sherlock is a few medals short himself.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: In which a medal-y John must be one of my John-kinks... -csf_


	50. Chapter 50

_**.**_

_Night time. London skyline scintillating in the dark background._

_Exterior scene. The Grand Theatre slate sloped roofing. A pursuit is undergoing._

_Sherlock and an unknown criminal are engaged in a dangerous fight._

_Enters John Watson _– a tad late –_ through the dormer window._

This could be a theatre play of our own.

_Only it's not._ It's life threatening and it has me, and Sherlock I'd assume, feeling the adrenaline rush, the tight grip on life, the loud drumming of hastened heart beats.

It started with a third character, the villain. The mass murderer that just had his plot unravelled by the one and only Sherlock Holmes. That happened not even five minutes ago, in the middle of a boring romantic comedy performance. Sherlock jumped off his seat mid play, raced through the orchestra pit (with no damage to any of the musical instruments there; my friend is a music lover), jumped to the stage and dived in for one of the central spotlights, redirecting it back towards the audience (several people flinched at the sudden bright light) and finally towards the left side balcony, where the criminal was about to commit a new murder.

Had I known Sherlock's plan before hand, I'd have told him that screaming bloody murder in a packed-house theatre was a bad idea. Still, for all of his love of drama, I've got the impression that he only just deduced the real culprit. He had his eyes set on one of the actors instead, who happens to be the criminal's twin brother (and a lousy actor, I might add).

The warned murderer then proceeded to escape through the back of the balcony without fulfilling his crime and Sherlock yelled from the stage: 'Come on, John! What's taking you so long?'

Several heads followed the direction of his gaze and found me, then waited for my answer.

Sherlock's got a nice voice, if one day he decides to become an actor or work on the radio. Probably he won't, seeing that he immediately dashed off stage.

It'd take me a bit longer to follow him through the commotion created and that's how we got a little separated.

When I finally reached the open window, chilly air from the exterior making its way in as the only clue to their whereabouts, there was no sign of Sherlock or the murderer.

I peeked through the window and had one last glimpse of Sherlock's faithful long coat flapping in the night as he ran snapped away from view by turning the roof's corner.

_Sherlock must need my help._

That's how I got myself in the same steep roof without hesitation. I also didn't waste any time in extracting my gun from my belt, concealed under my jumper. _It wasn't the most comfortable seating, while watching the play._

_John Watson enters the stage,_

_searching for the elusive other characters:_

_a hero and a villain._

'Sherlock!' I call him out into the damp night.

_We're a bit high up, Sherlock._ Not the safest of places.

In the silent night I hear nothing more than my ragged breaths.

What was the murderer thinking? There seems to be no escape, no way out of here, but the window we came through.

We'll catch him, and bring him to justice for all he's done.

Suddenly I notice further ahead a piece of blue fabric, undulating in the crossed winds. I've seen it times enough to recognise it anywhere. _Sherlock's scarf._

In a split second I rush towards the colourful property of my best friend. Careful as I can, for night frost has settled on the slates already, making them slippery.

As I kneel by the blue scarf I realise it's been tied to a roof's corner pinnacle with a basic knot. _I don't get it, Sherlock._

In the open window's cast light behind me I can sense a shadowed silhouette. Over my shoulder I can recognise the memorable shape of Sherlock's coat. _He's okay, then._

I try to relax but something – just _something_ – keeps telling me that I'm still in danger. Call it a premonition if you will, _something_ has my hairs standing on end. Maybe because I'm sure Sherlock would announce himself to me, to the man that lived wars and battlefields, he wouldn't ever startle me in a dangerous rooftop. I'm so sure of my friend's carefulness that I know now that it was a grave mistake to have put the gun down. This is a stand-off. Without even turning around I ask out loud: 'What have you done with Sherlock, Chandler?'

The disgusting thief halts, caught off-guard. I've managed to slow him down, gain time into my advantage. _Not for long._ He resumes his approach, slower now. Chandler still has the advantage and answers in a strong projected voice:

'How did you know I wasn't Holmes? Most of all, how did you both know it wasn't my brother?'

Chandler has missed his chance of doubling back through the window and make a run for his life. He's set on leaving behind no witnesses and continuing his murderous spree.

_It's up to me to stop him._

I smirk in response to chandler's question. Living with Sherlock has taught me a thing or two. I try channelling my genius friend into a bluff for time. 'The projection of your voice. An actor on stage needs to have a strong voice and a perfect diction. The actor on stage tonight didn't quite have it. I assume it was your twin, pretending to be you, on stage.'

'Naturally.'

_It almost makes Sherlock's job easy._ I glance at my abandoned gun, calculating my chances. Not nearly enough.

'Sherlock wouldn't part with his coat and scarf willingly.'

Chandler is very close now. Still I won't turn to face him. Keeping his curiosity alight.

Suddenly he kicks my gun off the roof. It falls off the edge, all the way down to the street, where it thumps with a metallic noise.

_Only one gun now – and it's not mine._

'I only knocked him out. For now it'll do. I needed to know if he had any more backups.'

_No, just me._ I close my eyes. _Oh, Sherlock..._

Still keeping my back turned to the murderer, I sense the end of our conversation. Only I won't allow it to happen this way. Not behind my back, cowardly. I'll face whatever is destined to happen.

Before I completely turn around, a sharp whack to the back of my head from some hard object (maybe his gun) throws me to the roof tiles, powerless. I try to grab myself on the roof's surface, but I keep sliding. As I'm finally getting a grip on the slabs and slowing down, a vicious kick seals my fate, throwing me off the edge.

_It's too high up._

I can still hear a gunshot, followed by a thump and I'm at a loss about what's happening above me, on the roof to which I cling on with my hands. As to myself, I'm an inch away – and slipping – from losing my grip altogether. I try to kick the air for perchance of support, but I'm hanging from a ledge and too far from the building wall.

By the muffled exclamations on the street bellow I realise someone has seen me already. Not that there's enough time to get rescuers here.

My left hand slips away first, my frailer shoulder couldn't keep up with the strain anymore. I curl my right hand fingers. Maybe I should let go and have it on my terms one last time. Only I can't. I don't want to let go – ever – and only when I have nothing left in me will I be beaten.

As I vow to push through, cold thin fingers wrap around my wrist. Stunned and utterly relieved, I look up to recognise Sherlock's face peering down at me. _He looks white as a sheet_, a trickle of blood from his temple justifies his tardiness.

'John!' he screams my name, uselessly, as he's using superhuman strength to help me back to the roof. I raise my left hand to push myself with his aid, but as soon as I strain it my shoulder gives out, sucking me back to the abyss. 'Damn it, John! Roofs are my thing!' Sherlock lets out his frustration. _Did he just joke about St Bart's_–_?_ I fake a (tight) smile as he grabs hold of me by the armpits and rolls me up to a relative safety at last.

It's as if he knows what goes on in my muddled brain right now, because even as we lay side by side, panting out of breath on the cold slates, he keeps his hand on my shoulder, my good shoulder actually, grounding me in safety. As if it wasn't enough he attentively touches my left shoulder. It brings spots of light into my vision and makes me nauseated.

'John', he says my name, calmly for the first time. As if nothing has happened. I remain gasping for air.

With a good look around he finds his scarf, unfastens it and reaches for my hurt arm. I shy away instinctively. He won't accept it. '_Just drop it, John'_ he directs me as he softly drops my left arm across my chest, like a bird's wounded wing. Folding it into place, he securely holds it into place with his scarf, immobilising it from further damage.

'We'll wait for backup, John', he offers generously. _Already my intentions._

I can feel my damp hair glued to my forehead. I nod at last. 'How about you, Sherlock?' I'm the doctor here, I should be doctoring him.

'I'm fine', he lies at once, for my benefit.

'What about the mass murderer, did he get away?' I mutter, in a tight whisper.

'I shot him with his gun. It was self-defence', he tells me, expressionless.

Not sure _how_, but I can't be bothered. I need to get up and tend to my patients.

'Stop it, John', he won't let me move. 'He was about to add you to his killings list. He can... _wait_', he amends his intended word carefully in the last second, for my benefit. Or because I gave him a warning look.

'Your coat...' I recall.

'I'll get it back as good as new.'

'You shot him while he was wearing your coat.'

'I was careful.'

'It was self-defence, you said.'

'I'm a fast-thinker.' _Right._ 'How did he catch you off-guard, John? You are a soldier, trained to be the stealthiest. Most of all, why did you come out to the roof?'

_I thought I was following you, Sherlock. I thought I was protecting you._

'I don't know', I lie. It's easier this way.

'You thought I was out on the roof', he deduces. _Will you just leave it alone? _I wish I could just walk away from here. Sherlock is manipulating the current situation to have me as a captive audience.

'Yes', I admit grudgingly.

'You didn't check.'

'No.'

'You acted before thinking.'

'Hm.'

He looks away into the night.

'Just so you know, John, I wouldn't make you follow me into a roof. _Ever._'

I'm fairly sure he now means St. Bart's. It catches me off-guard. Before I can think of an answer that won't betray the emotional turmoil it brings to me, police sirens are finally audible in the night. It's like he timed it to avoid a painful, yet one day necessary, conversation.

As he's getting up to coordinate help on the roof, I close my eyes and let out a sigh.

_Just so you know, Sherlock, I'd never admit myself to be a bystander again._

_**.**_


	51. Chapter 51

_A/N: No, it's not a trend. If the plot starts sounding familiar, it's because I was going for a mirrored exploration of another chapter as my starting point. As always, still not British, a doctor, a writer, or anything other than myself. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part One of Two .**_

TNT. Trinitrotoluene.

Dangerous, explosive, somewhat _picky_ chemical substance. Lucky for Sherlock and I, the criminal didn't seem to know how to use it properly. Cornered in the shallowest tunnels of an abandoned mine, he decided to take the old charge of TNT that had escaped detention by the authorities and put it to use. Had he chosen a proper location, we wouldn't have survived it. As it was, we were surprised by the uncontained blast at the beginning of one of the long tunnels.

Sherlock must have seen something. He pointed at the innocent looking tubular charge and tried to shout out a warning. I remember realising that I needed to push him away. Don't know if I managed to or not. The whole world stopped – I'd swear to that – as a front of the blinding light and hot air collided violently against us. I think Sherlock ducked; standing behind him, it got me slammed against the mine's rock wall and knocked me out cold at once.

I imagine the rescuers had a hard time getting to us, but I've got no notion the time elapsed. When I recovered consciousness I had already been evacuated to the nearest emergency unit.

Greg Lestrade was already here when I woke up. One look at him can tell me he's been around a while. He looks frazzled too, beyond the evident signs of an overgrown beard and dark circles under the eyes. It's hardly reassuring to see him looking so deflated, as he's sat pondering the distance, by my bedside.

Then again, he hasn't realised I'm awake yet.

'Greg...' I call him out despite the parchedness of my voice. 'Go home.'

He's startled, as he turns to me and smiles a genuine smile, that seems to lift ten years off him.

'John. You're awake.'

I nod, shortly, but it still turns out too enthusiastically not to have the whole room spinning for a couple of seconds.

'Keep steady, John. It was a tremendous blast, you need time to recuperate.'

He should know. He was standing outside for backup when it happened. He must have felt the surge of energy ripping its way through the ground like a small localised earthquake.

'And Sherlock?' He should be okay, or Greg wouldn't be here, _right?_

'He's been awake for a while. Driving me nuts.'

I can't help but smile.

'Go to him. Tell him to rest, will you?'

Greg looks down and bites his lip. It's only a minor tell, and for a brief second, but I can sense something is wrong. I need to know what.

'Greg, _please_.'

He looks straight at me, knowing he can't evade it anymore.

'The blast of light, John, or the concussion, something, has temporarily knocked out his sight. The doctors are confident it's just an inflammation over some optical nerve, or something, and that it'll pass soon enough. But Sherlock, being Sherlock, is trying to sign himself of the hospital without waiting.'

'And without seeing?' I shiver.

'He says he's a genius, he'll pull through.'

I shake my head slowly – and the room appears to spin accordingly. Stubborn as Sherlock is, this is going to be one tough job.

'Will you... will you convince Sherlock to swing by here first, Greg?'

He frowns, not much assured. 'I can try', he mutters, as he gets up with one last gesture he reminds me: 'Don't use up all your energy, though, you need to rest too.'

I nod to make him go. Greg leaves my ward with the weight of the world on his shoulders. _This case was at Scotland Yard's request._

Pulling my sheet back I swing my legs over carefully. Before I get up I unplug myself from the IV line, then I collect the patient's medical chart and go over it. Okay stats, minor cuts and bruises – or at least nothing that would stop me from getting out of here. _I'm needed elsewhere._

I adjust my sling's shoulder strap with familiarity. It's all I've got time for. Sherlock must be by the hospital's front door by now.

In the quiet efficient bustling of the hospital, no one seems to notice I'm gone. It helps that being a doctor myself I know how to avoid the major giveaways.

At last, I spot the lanky figure in the long coat that I'd recognise anywhere. He's walking the corridor ahead of me, one hand lazily tracing the wall for direction. The other hand carrying his blue scarf in a bundle. There's a slight brokenness to his usually proud posture that tells me he's in pain, but his whole demeanour is as determined as ever.

'Sherlock!' I call him, relieved.

He turns at once, startled, to the sound of my voice. I can see the blankness in his gaze, the insistent blinking as if trying to clear his vision, the eerie steadiness ahead of his icy blue eyes.

_I'm almost glad he can't see my shock or guess the cold in my stomach._

'John?'

'Leaving already, without me?' I joke.

His features lighten significantly. I guess he expected a good old fashioned telling off for abandoning the hospital. _I'll save that for later._

'Wanna share a cab?' he invites casually.

I nod, till I realise he can't see my answer. 'Sure. And Greg? Shouldn't we wait for him?'

Sherlock waves off his free hand. 'He'll guess where to find us.' _Baker Street._

'I'm sure he will.'

_**.**_

Sherlock's riding quietly in the cab we're sharing. I can only imagine what it must be doing to his headache. _Nasty things._

'Are we going through Piccadilly? Why?' he shoots out of the blue. I have to gather my thoughts, but I immediately recognise he's right.

'Traffic jam the other way round', I recall with an effort. 'It's okay, Sherlock.' He's hyper-vigilant, paranoid, and I'd hardly expect less from a man who's just lost his ability to see the world around him. I try to comfort him like medical school taught us; with a soothing reaching hand over his arm. He reacts with a start and tenses visibly as he shies away. _Yeah, this is Sherlock. _The man with no notion of personal space, all hands out on crime scenes and corpses, but also the ascetic genius that looks down on a casual touch or a incidental brush.

'Sorry', I remove my hand at once.

'Don't patronise me, John', he mocks my bedside manners derogatively. I blink, without knowing whether to take offense.

_**.**_

It took Greg less than an hour to come join us at 221B, out of breath and positively fuming by our joint daring escape.

'Are you two nuts? You both need medical care!'

I guess that's in plain sight. _Good thing I'm a doctor._

'I'll keep an eye on Sherlock, and make sure he takes his meds, Greg', I assure him as I move to get the water kettle and make the frantic detective inspector a soothing cup of tea.

'John, you can't—'

'I can't _not_ do it', I cut him short, decisively.

Greg lowers his voice to a mere whisper, so Sherlock won't hear us: 'You can't take care of him.'

'Been doing nothing else since I met him', I reply lightly. _And so has he, I could add._

'This is too much, John.'

'It's temporarily.'

'We don't know how long it'll last.'

I shake my head, I don't care. If Sherlock needs my help, this is where I should be. 'Can I count on you to get some groceries in?' I add, handing him out the cup of tea.

Greg looks close to a nervous breakdown. But I know he'll be fine. Sherlock needs to be my priority right now.

Pushing on my sling's shoulder strap I go over at Sherlock. He's been sitting on his armchair since he got here. Hasn't moved, hardly spoken, like a man in shock or hiding from the emotional turmoil of vulnerability and uncertainty.

_I'm a doctor and I can't fix this. Only time can, now._

It crashes the foundations of my world to see Sherlock like this. The man who's always bigger than the room, confident mocking, defiant smirk, is fighting hard to stay afloat right now.

As if reading my thoughts, he tells me: 'I asked Mycroft to get you my medical records, John.'

'I'll have a look', I promise lightly, touched by the confidence it proves he has in me. He's allowing me to take over his medical care, while at the hospital he refused everyone.

I take a slow seat in the chair opposite. At the expense of the situation I can get a good look and take him in. He looks pedantic, arrogant, impatient. I can see in his expression - he looks so young, nothing in his face is marred by the incident - that he's rationalising his fears, taking control.

Weren't it for the blue scarf still clumped into a ball in his hand like a miniature version of a child's security blanket and I'd might be fooled like Greg. I can tell the hurt and the loneliness. _I've been there myself._

'I owe you my share of the cab', I state conversationally. For some reason - probably haste to go inside 221B - Sherlock actually paid for the ride this time.

'It's nothing, just drop it, John', he offers graciously. Still disregarding all the times I paid and he never split the expense.

'You caught the cabbie short-changing you.'

'I'm not stupid', he despises. 'I could feel the shape of the coins. It was a pound short.'

'So it was.'

'And I can stay here on my own just fine, _Greg!_' he adds, over my shoulder.

Greg's been absolutely quiet in the kitchen. I wonder how Sherlock knew he was still there. 'Amazing', I state before I can check myself. A little too happily for what the situation calls for.

'I could smell his cheap cologne from here', Sherlock states grumpily, 'and I didn't hear him leave.'

I smile at Greg over my shoulder to set him at ease. Finally he accepts to leave us on our own.

'I'll ask Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on you two', he still adds, reluctantly. Finally he leaves in heavy honest footsteps down the stairs.

I turn back to Sherlock and advise: 'He's gone, now. And you should get some sleep.'

'I don't _need_ to sleep.'

'I'm your doctor, remember?'

'Fine', he plays along with an eerie eye-roll. Immediately he gets up to go to his room, unhelped, unguided. I get up as well, standing in guard, covering his footsteps. 'I'm fine, John!' he dismisses me too easily.

I foresee what is about to happen and have a split second decision. _I owe him honesty._

Alone, Sherlock bumps into the kitchen table. He bends over in pain and frustration only to clash against Greg's pulled back chair in his way. I rush to hold him up safely. He finally leans towards me, sharing his weight. _I've got you, Sherlock._

In the old mine, less than a moment before the unstable TNT exploded, Sherlock was walking ahead of me. At his alarm, I pushed him down to the ground for safety. As the hot blast impact reached us it hit me squarely in the chest, slamming me backwards. Sherlock must have looked up, in confusion or to find me, at the wrong time, the surge of light damaging his eyes temporarily. It knocked us both unconscious at the same time.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	52. Chapter 52

_(A/N) Uninteresting fact, I'm sure: I've just realised I've been posting for a year today. I've learnt a lot. Wish I could say thank you to everyone that gave a try to my stories. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part Two of Two .**_

The patient is asleep, mostly due to the side-effects of the pain-killers, I'd assume. It's time for me to rest somewhat as well, if I can. I won't risk going far, Sherlock might need me. Waking up to total darkness and some confusion as to the recent events will make Sherlock understandingly berserk.

I remove my sling and chuck it to the table. I have a few minutes to slump myself on my armchair, resisting the urge to close my eyes at once.

Good idea too, for Mrs Hudson is making her way up the stairs with a brown envelope. _Sherlock's file, from Mycroft._

'Thank you so much, Mrs H', I appreciate as I go greet her. She will have none of that, fussing over me at once:

'Oh, John, what have you two done this time? You don't look so good, love.' She shakes her head and tuts away as I take hold of Sherlock's medical records, browsing through.

'I'm fine, Sherlock's got the worse of it, but given time he'll be fine', I assure her calmly. I know she must be worried sick about him.

It won't stop her from going over to the table to try to put some order in 221B. It's a coping and control mechanism, I know, but I need to put an end to it at once. Sherlock's photographic memory will guide him through the living room so long as it's kept the same.

'Mrs Hudson, I know you're not the housekeeper, but could you do Sherlock some nice rich soup?' _Diversion manoeuvre engaged._

She knows she's being played, but she won't say No to Sherlock. Reluctantly she agrees to come back later. With one last sad look at me, she adds: 'Call me, John, if you need me. Sherlock won't make it easy on you.'

I smirk softly. I don't expect so either. He's too independent. Even when we are on cases and I'm his backup, still he won't fully disclose or share his plans. _I've been fighting a long running battle for his trust._

As soon as Mrs Hudson is leaving, Sherlock is emerging from his room, grumpy and bewildered in equal amounts.

'Sherlock, are you okay?' I ask. Dumb question, too obvious for the genius. He snorts arrogantly. _If it wasn't for the blue scarf you still haven't let go off, I'd might believe your act there._

'I _need_ my medication', he tells me forcefully. He wants to haste his recovery. Like a kid, he acts as if more medicine and painkillers could fix him faster.

'It's too early.'

'Nonsense, John.'

'No one would have given you more at the hospital.'

'That's why I came here.'

_I won't be your enabler on this, Sherlock. I'm a doctor and your wellbeing is at risk. _'I can't, Sherlock. Not until I have a proper look at this.' I raise the folder in the air. He won't see it, but he'll know what I'm talking about, surely.

At the cover of Sherlock's darkness he twists his face in despise towards me, for not playing along. He'll never take notice of my instant reaction.

It's like something in our mutual confidence has been broken by his terrible affliction. There's a huge gap between us, and I can't reach my friend, not right now.

'Just go away, John', he tells me, coldly. It sends a shiver down my spine.

_I can't._ 'I won't.'

'I don't want you here. Mrs Hudson can help me.'

_She will. We both will._ 'If you rest a bit more, you'll feel better, you'll see.'

'I'm not one of your stupid average patients.' _I know who you are, Sherlock. _'And you are useless as a doctor, John. I need a specialist, not a... GP.'

I gulp. That's what I am now, yeah. 'Fine, I'll run some names by your brother.'

'He can do it himself. He doesn't need your _help_.' I know his tone of voice comes from a place of hurt, he doesn't mean it.

'Fine. Look, Sherlock, I know this is all new and you're in pain, but—'

Suddenly he snaps at me: 'No, you don't know! I'm not a crippled washed-up GP like you! Don't you ever think you know me!'

My heart sinks at his words and his perception of me. Stoically I fake a tight smile and shuffle around, mechanically. Time for me to leave, before things spin out of my control.

I go past Mrs Hudson at the door, she must have heard all of it, roused by our argument. Somehow, this is sweet caring Mrs H and I can't bring myself to face her, humiliated by Sherlock's words. _The way he sees me._ I need to go. _She must see the same._ Out. _Keep steady till you're out of sight, John._

_**.**_

What sort of a person am I, that abandons a friend in his hour of need? Slowly, the anger and the hurt have turned into guilt, after a cooling off period. My friend is lost and alone, and I've taken to heart words said in haste. I should have known better.

_Even as a washed-up crippled GP I can still be of use, Sherlock._

As I return to Baker Street with hundreds of apologies crossing my brain, ready to be vented, I'm deeply worried about Sherlock.

I come to find him in the living room. Sat on my armchair, his back turned to me. All I get to see of him are his long legs and disheveled curly hair sticking out. He looks quiet, peaceful, acceptant of his eremite-like loneliness. It pains me to see him this alone.

'Sherlock', I call him softly, 'I'm sorry.'

This time he's startled. He turns reflexively towards the sound of my voice. I can see relief in his expression, I didn't quite expect that. 'I shouldn't have left', I add.

He shakes his head and shows me the object he's been holding. Something blue? Still his scarf, I suppose. He tugs at it and the Velcro scratches typically. I realise he's got hold of my shoulder strap. I had forgotten it in the living room table.

'What else didn't I see, John?' he asks me quietly, pained. 'What didn't I observe? This sound, the Velcro, I heard it a lot. I disregarded it. And it was the most important clue.'

'What do you mean?'

'The explosion. Obviously it didn't just hit me. I've been hearing your voice, I felt the strength of your grip and the energy of your footsteps. You seemed okay.'

_I had to fake it, Sherlock. Every time I walked into the room I lightened my footsteps, pushed through my own pain, because I knew you are a great investigator, no matter the circumstances. I had to fool you, Sherlock, because I knew you'd push me away if you'd realise you couldn't lean on me to get through this. _'Sorry for that as well.'

'How did you fool me? I'm the genius here.'

A brief smile comes to my lips. 'You had a lot on your mind, forget it', I diverge at once.

'What else is there?' he insists.

I sigh. I suppose I need to tell him. Or he'll ask Greg or Mycroft. Either way I can't hold it from him. 'Dislocated shoulder, it's been reset. A couple of cracked ribs on the same side. The sling helps with both. I really shouldn't have left it behind. I'm sorry I didn't tell you.'

He shakes his head, frustrated. 'How could I not notice it?' he insists.

'The same way I didn't understand your restlessness because I let myself get blinded by what happened. I failed you, Sherlock. I should have been better at supporting you.' I bow my head down in defeat. Not that Sherlock will see it, nor did I want him to. A shiver of cold is the only proof that I stand here at the moment, the shock of the events eroding me from inside out. For the first time, I'm actually facing my condition; I've been so focused on Sherlock.

'John.'

I realise Sherlock has got up, awkwardly, tentatively. He hesitates on what to do. He doesn't understand what is going on, my silence. I can't bring myself to fake steadiness right now. Yet I refuse to be a burden on him. If I can just be in this limbo for a bit longer, immorally exploring Sherlock's loss for a couple of moments of privacy, then maybe I can still pull myself together and help him like I should be doing.

_Sherlock is usually the steady one; carrying both our weights as drained me._

_It's too much for a crippled—_

'I didn't mean that', he says at once, with a bold fire in his blue eyes. It's almost as if he could see me. I don't know how I expected to further fool the great detective. 'John, I mean it now that I didn't mean it then.'

Child-like excuses, I guess he wants more painkillers and he's gracing his way to them.

'No offense taken', I mutter, and it's true. I'm not offended by his truth. I'm squeezing my shoulder tight in my hand, numbly, as I speak.

'You're bleeding, please sit down, John', Sherlock asks me quietly.

I look down on my left shoulder. Sure enough there's a wet red stain there. 'It's superficial', I shake my head. Then it hits me—

—Sherlock saw it.

I've been talking to a man who's been looking back at me. His sight has returned since I left him, and he's used my uncertainty of his condition to study my reactions shamefully.

'You can see again, Sherlock.' I really shouldn't be smiling. He's tricked me. _I don't care, I'm relieved._ Why keep it a secret? Was he waiting for me to deduce it? I— _He was watching me_, it hits me all of a sudden. I raise my chin and tighten my jaw. _It's the last time you'll ever see my vulnerability, Sherlock._

He's been quiet, as if giving me enough time to take it all in. Now he insists, calmly: 'Will you sit down, John?'

I shake my head curtly. 'Don't need to.'

He purses his lips softly, pondering me. 'No, you don't _need_ to', he concedes, 'but you may wish to do so.'

I shake my head again. 'I'm fine.'

He rolls his eyes, muttering 'I said I was sorry!'

I clench my jaw. 'Don't be.'

'I've clearly hurt you with my words, John.' _Will you leave it alone already?_

'No', I lie.

'You can't have taken offense to be called a GP because that's your job. You go to the clinic to save lives. And give out vitamins; you do that too. And you can't have taken the rest to the letter because you know you're not crippled.' I look away in a tell I couldn't help. 'I see...' Sherlock states, abusing that expression that to the both of us has just gained a new meaning. 'John, I am sorry', he says it again, this time softly, meaningfully. 'I was upset. I meant to hurt you because I wanted to push you away. But I didn't feel better when you left.'

I look at my friend, and his child-like explanations of his inner turmoil. This time he's got there without my help deciphering it for him. Actually, he just may be acting more mature than me, right now.

I've realised that I've been doing the same. Pushing him away, hurtfully. And I, as well, didn't mean to hurt him.

'We should both take a seat, Sherlock', I concede at last. He smiles genuinely, relieved. 'Who's going to make tea?' I wonder.

'Rock, paper, scissors?' he volunteers, with a smirk.

_**.**_


	53. Chapter 53

_A/N: Way too long. Once again, comes in two parts for easier reading. Also - alert - plenty of clichés around. -csf_

* * *

_**. First Part .**_

Sherlock drives me mad. Never having been a police officer or a private investigator myself, I don't understand much of how this undercover work goes. When I told Sherlock I'd join him, I expected – foolishly, I suppose – to go around London as someone else for a couple of hours, with a tape recorder hidden under my jumper.

_Tape recorder_; maybe that's where I went wrong. That was a long time ago, in a movie, I'm sure. Old fictional clichés hardly summing up to my current situation.

I went to Baker Street to collect my tape recorder, or its modern equivalent. From his armchair, Sherlock raised a tired glance off his newspaper to my eagerness at 221B's door and gestured towards the coffee table. Among a chaotic jumble of old clothes, produced by some charity shop's spare pile, I found myself drawn to my old Browning, its steel cold surface sleek and shinny. I enveloped it in my hand at once.

Mary asked me not to keep it in the house this past week, for the neighbour's child has been spending some time there, babysat by a gleeful Mary. In this beautiful world of hers, a baby has no place in a house with a gun, even if hidden and locked, and the baby hardly sits up yet. Somehow I ended up agreeing with her, and 221B was the natural place to put away temporarily my gun. Sherlock, on the other hand, rolled his eyes to the flawed reasoning, despite his immediate acceptance to be the gun's guardian, shooting statistics on domestic gunfire accidents. I stopped him short before he could ramble on about friendly fire statistics at war. He does this more often now. Rambles on about facts when our highly pregnant Mary is in the room. I think he's still chewing on the idea that I'm going to be a father. As if it's driving away his memories of us at 221B, doing the Work. So my gun at 221B is to him as if I'm keeping one foot back in my old life.

I pick up my gun from the colourful pile of clothes and look up inquiringly at my friend.

'Undercover, you said?' I try to make sense. As a general rule, it's not easy to permeate into Sherlock's world. He's impatient, as if it was obvious, when he states:

'Yes, John, we are going to join a traditional travelling circus from the Old Europe that is touring the UK.'

I take a stunned seat in the leather sofa by the coffee table. 'Join a circus?' I repeat.

He nods, still impatient. 'You and me both. Scotland Yard needs our help to solve a series of daring thefts scattered across the country. So far I've managed to prove that all thefts occurred during the circus stay in each town. Hence the inference that the culprit travels along with the circus. They are a tight-knit community and so far I cannot tell if it was the Strong Man, the Magician (he's rubbish, by the way), the first or the second Clown, the Bearded Lady...'

'I don't think they do the Bearded Lady anymore, Sherlock. It's not... as politically correct.'

He frowns like a disappointed five year old. 'Why not? What does she do for a living now? Did she take up a regular boring job, like yours at the clinic?'

I sigh. 'I don't know, Sherlock, she can do whatever she wants.'

Sherlock crosses the room in a couple of eager steps towards me. 'You don't look... interested.'

I look up to my friend, who once again has positioned himself too close to me, studying my expression, and state the obvious: 'I don't have a circus talent, Sherlock. I have a boring job.'

He won't believe me. 'I'll be there too', he promises. _He's promising me we'll run to join a circus together._

'As what?'

'The Second Magician. "Challenging the mysteries of the Universe and breaking the Laws of Physics"!'

Sounds nice. With his chemistry and science skills he might just pull it off. I smile with ease. He takes the opportunity to add on: 'I've decided you'll be the Dagger Thrower, John. "With unchallenged accuracy—" '

I cut him off, smirking: ' "A former Army Captain that has been shipped home joins a circus, showing his amazing skills at popping balloons from a distance"... Yeah, I don't think that's an act that will sell a lot of tickets.'

'You'd be surprised', he states, in what I can only assume to be loyalty display.

_Dagger Thrower at a circus. Why not a dragon slayer while we're at it?_

'Mary has already agreed to your holidays', he adds.

_He talked it over with Mary?_ 'It's not holidays.'

'She gave me your passport.'

'I thought you said they were in the UK.'

'They are leaving tonight. We'll join them as they head back to Europe. You don't expect me to go unrecognised in front of an audience in London, do you?'

_Oh, this is turning way more complicated than a tape recorder._

Before I can say something, Sherlock adds: 'And I need to perfect my routine. Can't just whisk it out of my hat, can I?'

I sigh. _Scotland Yard will be owing us big time._

At least throwing daggers was once part of my one-on-one combat training as a soldier. Sort of. _Told you it's not much of an act..._

_**.**_

The big fabric tent is stretched to its limit to welcome hundreds of people that come to see the old style circus, and the dozens of performers and workers putting the show together. Modern trailers substituting the retro caravans of the old days, keeping in with all the commodities of the contemporary world. As Sherlock and I walk the premises, a couple of men are convincing an elephant to move, leading it away slowly.

'So that's how the elephant got into the room', Sherlock murmurs as we pass them by. I giggle instantly.

'Not that other time', I recall.

'That was a brilliant case', he sates longingly, about the elephant in the room. Before I can ponder it through, he nudges me with his shoulder, sensing someone approaching us.

'Evening', Sherlock says, taking the conversation's lead.

'You're too early for the show, fellows!' The man smiles at once, exhibiting both his foreign accent and his gold teeth in one go.

'We came looking for a job. This is John, and I'm Sherlock.' My friend smiles innocently. _It always comes across as silly._

'Sherlock, that's a funny name.'

'I'm a funny man.'

'We don't do stand up comedy.'

'Neither do I. I'm a magician.'

'We already have one.'

'Thought you might use another one.'

'No, we're a small circus.'

Sherlock shrugs, giving up way too easily. 'Okay.'

'Wait!' The manager takes interest. 'And this fellow here, John, what does he do? Third magician?'

Sherlock ponders: 'He has knives.'

'What does he do with them?'

'He cuts bread, spreads butter.' The manager blinks. 'That's what he usually uses them for. He uses the same ones to throw at targets, and around our lovely assistant.'

'Where is she?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Mary's pregnant.' Then he glances at me, accusingly.

The manager smiles. 'Maybe I can find him another assistant for the time being. We can use his skills, if they're any good.'

He's about to put me to the test. _It's been a while._

'You said you don't need a magician', Sherlock interrupts.

'I'm the magician', the manager interrupts back. 'I could use someone to stand in for me while I take care of some _deliveries_ this next week. I can use you both. Tonight, after the show, stick around. I'll give you guys a chance to prove your skills. And bring your stuff. If you get in, you're leaving with us tonight. We're leaving England.'

_**.**_

As the circus tent slowly deflates back to the ground, being efficiently packed away, Sherlock and I wait for our test in proximity of some lazy circus members' campfire. For the past quarter of an hour, I've been badgered by a very insistent exotic looking older lady to have my fortune read. Being a man of science and medicine, I don't quite take these things seriously.

I see Sherlock signalling me behind her back, telling me to play along. With a sigh, I give in at last. I hand out my dominant left hand, but she makes me swap hands. Apparently non-dominant hands carry fewer scars or are more true to your inner core. I may have to think that one through – seeing that I use my right hand as my trigger hand. _Maybe that's my core._

_I know what I had to do has become etched in me forever._

'You like firearms', she comments casually, studying my calluses. 'I've seen this pattern before, in soldiers.'

I glance at my friend; _she might give you a run for your money here, Sherlock._

'Been a soldier', I admit laconically. 'In another life time', I add, on a whim. Surely she should be using her powers to deduce this herself?

'When you came back life seemed meaningless, slow, boring. You felt detached from everyone else's reality. I suppose joining a circus made you feel more _alive_, John.'

I open my eyes wide before I can keep myself in check. She read me like a book. I didn't join a circus. For the lack of words, I can't even say what I joined as I became Sherlock's blogger. But it gave meaning back to my life, I owe my mad friend that much.

The exotic lady in front of me smirks. 'Former Lieutenant Rose Chandler, British Royal Army Core... _sir!'_ she adds, reading into my ranking from my physical reaction to the army's mention.

'At ease', I say reflexively. 'And fortune telling, Miss Rose?'

'I had to come up with some talent. Being a soldier was all I've ever been.'

'What got you sent home?' It's a personal question, but somehow it feels like we share a bond already.

'Landmine by the side of the road', she says, as she moves back the scarf covering her neck to present faded burnt scars. 'And you?'

'Was shot.'

'Must have been quite a shot, then.'

'It was enough.'

She nods, slowly. 'Welcome, John, to our home.' The way she says it seems to refer to a comprehensive collection of outcasts finding refuge in each other's company. I realise I'm starting to like this group of underground-weird type of people. They don't seem so foreign to me anymore. 'And your friend? Was he on the army as well? Doesn't seem his type.' I follow her gaze onto Sherlock, pacing impatiently a few feet away. 'He's more of a charismatic leader than the army likes to have in its ranks.'

_He'd lead a revolution_, I have to agree. 'I trust him', I state out of the blue, like the most important depiction of his personality I could provide.

She smiles. 'You trust the magician, the man of a thousand illusions, of smoke and mirrors', she resumes. I smile to accept her point, and nod again.

'I really do.'

'You are either a very complicated man, John, or a very simple one', she tells me.

'That is not for me to say, Lieutenant.'

Sherlock is finally returning to us, in decided moves. One glance at the fortune teller and he resumes, absent-mindedly: 'Found out if it's a girl or a boy, John?'

The question startles me, as he reminds me of Mary as if I had forgotten her already. I still don't believe in fortune telling. Rose shrugs, saying honestly: 'Fifty-fifty chances, really.' Sherlock actually smiles brightly to her. It's as if they got along at once. But then again, Sherlock's been known to instantly connect with murderers and thieves just as fast as with saintly people. It's rare yet it happens every once in a while.

_Sometimes I think he connected with me right at the moment I lent him my phone at St Bart's._

_I guess I was a good puzzle at the time._

The first magician and manager comes over to us, at last, business-like and rushed. 'Brought your knives, John?' I nod, quietly. He dictates his conditions: 'The flag on top of the main tent, pierced through the centre, and you're in.'

I watch the waving piece of coloured cloth high up in the air. Not an easy shot at all.

As I go to my rucksack he stops me short, handing me a butter knife instead. He's kidding me, right? _See what your humour gets us into, Sherlock?_

I take the small knife in my hands. This needs to be more than a precise swing, it needs to be powerful too. Right hand again – my soldier hand – as I handle it mindlessly, trying to get accustomed to the weight and balance centre. I glance at Sherlock, he's looking very serious. Our whole cover depends on this one shot. Then I look back at my target.

In under a second I raise the metal object over my shoulder and throw it, sacrificing the flag. The fabric keeps mostly immobile in the first second, as the knife pierces through, due more to its speed and angle than its sharpness. Next it whiplashes from the air movement or the wind. As it slows down, unfurling, its plain for the audience to see that there is a tiny gash there, of my making.

_I can't believe I pulled it through._

'Hurray!' Rose cheers, piercing our collectively stunned silence. We all look back at the manager.

'There. Are we in?' I request calmly. He ponders me, then Sherlock, and finally nods, holding out a hand for us to shake.

_I may not be half as bad as I thought at this undercover work, Sherlock._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	54. Chapter 54

_A/N: Still not British, a writer, or part of a retro travelling circus. -csf_

* * *

_**. Second Part .**_

The travelling pace of our convoy of trailers and trucks has been monotonous and uneventful. I've been talking to Mary on the phone – she's doing fine – for the last couple of hours, while Sherlock has been packing and unpacking, shuffling his things around, getting his stage act ready. Given enough time we may just forget our real jobs.

'Haven't you sorted that out yet, Sherlock?' Feels like my uncommunicative friend has been doing nothing else throughout this very long voyage.

'Almost', he responds honestly, very engaged in his task. 'Isn't it time to sharpen your knives, John?'

No, I want them anything but sharpened. 'What if they insist that I need an assistant? Someone to throw knives at?'

'Someone to miss hitting', he points out the mechanics of the game. 'You'll be fine, John.'

'I'm not that good, Sherlock... Is that wishful thinking or a deduction?'

'No', the absent-minded genius answers. I realise he hasn't even been paying attention. With a deep sigh I look out of the window. We've crossed the Channel during the night and we're roaming inland somewhere in France. Small short countryside houses are sparse along the tar roads we travel. Agricultural fields and industrial facilities pop in and out of view as I lose my gaze out of the trailer's window. Finally I realise we're decelerating and reaching a more populated town. Get the tents ready, put on a show, collect everything, leave again. It must be a hard life.

'What's up, Sherlock?'

He's gone into an activity frenzy, tapping away on his phone.

'The case, John, the case! I need to find out what they plan to steal here tonight! Or do you actually want to be a part of the circus forever?'

I smile, recognising the old Sherlock, hyperactive and energised. As for me, I feel exhausted by the whole day's travel and anxious as to my performance. No matter what distracted-Sherlock says, I don't feel that I'll be fine.

_**.**_

I've been doing my share of the construction work for the tent, the ticket office, the food area and everything else. Sherlock has made himself disappear – _his first magic act, I'd assume _– as this sort of manual labour is not really his thing. Somehow he has escaped detection and I've seen him snoop around the campsite secretly, once in a while.

A couple of hours after he went MIA, Sherlock startles me as he materialises by my side again. He takes my mallet and gives me the rope to tie to the ground while he whispers: 'I cannot stop the robbery because there aren't enough proofs for the Scotland Yard to take jurisdiction over the French authorities. We are going to have to let it happen, then seize the stolen property, report it and let the Police take care of it.'

'Charming', I comment sarcastically, whipping my sweaty brow with my sleeve. 'Any chance we can get all of that done before we're due on stage?'

He nods. 'I'll try. Either way, you'll be fine.' _Yeah, still not sure about that, Sherlock._ 'That's just stage-fright, John.'

With a wink he moves swiftly away, disappearing again. 'Sherlock?' I call him, as soon as I realise he's gone. _Any chance you could have taken me with you?_

_**.**_

The show has started, the lights in the tent sparkle in the night, the public is buzzing, the acrobats are endangering their lives and the clowns are pulling out laughs out of old routines. Everything is accounted for, except Sherlock. Haven't seen him since the afternoon.

_If there was a plan, he's forgotten to communicate it to me._

As the Strong Man comes off the round centre stage he points ominously at me. 'You're next, Shorty.'

I tilt my head to the side, clenching my jaw. _I'll deal with him later._

Right. My turn. Go to the centre, throw some knives around, get back out. Piece of cake.

_Your plan is certainly taking long, Sherlock!_

" ...Welcome Dagger John to the stage, the man that can snap off the lit end of a cigarette from thirty feet away... "

_Come on..._

The crowd is cheering for their promised hero, there is hardly any turning back now. As if sensing my hesitation I still hear Lieutenant Chandler edge me on: 'Go get them, John! Show them what you can do!'

_Right. Hm. Stage._

I walk on to the middle of the stage, squared shoulders, set jaw, as if it was my latest battlefield. I'm wearing dark shirt and trousers, it's the stupid long cape that makes me look so silly, _as a cartoonish villain from the silent movies era._

I stop mid-stage and look defiantly to the quietening audience. In a wide theatrical gesture I open one side of the cape and show a few knives hanging there. _Like a misguided kitchen chef on a rampage. How can anyone take me seriously?_

" ...Will hit the balloons on a target across the arena... "

_Fine, I can do that._ I take one knife out, show it around to the audience. It doesn't bend, it's not fake, it's not remotely controlled. _I should have thought of one of those sooner._

One fast swing of the wrist and the yellow balloon pops.

" ...Dagger John will now through two knives at the same time... "

_Boring._ I take the knives out and hold them apart as I show them to the audience. Then I turn to the target and fling them.

_Double-pop._ Done.

People are actually clapping. It's not like it was a couple of impossible shots...

" ...With the last knife, Dagger John will hit a simple apple across the stage... "

Small target, right. As I'm reaching for the knife on the other side of my silly cape, I hear more instructions over the megaphone:

" ...He will hit the apple held by his assistant, in a life-daring act... "

_Assistant?_ Who would be crazy enough to volunteer? I strain to look under the spotlights aimed at me and recognise the tall thin figure of Sherlock Holmes. He's not in his magician costume. He must have been caught long ago.

No matter all his publicised trust in my skills, I know he didn't quite volunteer. Probably he's been caught while snooping around or even as he seized the hidden stolen property. This is artistically played payback. And they are counting on me failing the target and hitting an unprotected Sherlock with a knife.

Fine, I'll miss him by a mile if I have to.

As I make the decision to fail my shot I see a brisk gesture from behind the backstage curtain. It's my strategic positioning that allows me to see what is blocked from view to the audience. The first magician is holding his own knife by Miss Rose's throat in threat. Either I throw the knife at Sherlock (sealing his fate) or at any sign of rebellion he hurts her.

_I guess she didn't foresee her own fortune._

It's a deadlock. Even if I hit the apple – I'm not sure I can – the manager is still in control. I need a plan, and Sherlock is totally unavailable. Time is dragging on and I need to make a choice.

Sherlock drives me mad. I've often felt that one day I'd end up shooting him before I could help myself. Being it a gun or a knife, I didn't quite expect to go at it deliberately.

I hold my breath to steady my breathing pattern and heart rate as much as I can, then raise the sharp knife as the crowd is cheering on, unsuspecting of the real danger. They must be convinced there must be some trick somewhere, in an over perfected routine. _I wish there was._

Sherlock actually nods at me, confidently. His expression is way too young and vulnerable under the spotlight's scrutiny. _I can't do this._

'Go on, John!' he yells cheerfully, playing along in the deceit. He goes even further, calling the crowd to join him. _I shake my head, desperately._ He's looking over at Rose, making me think of her. _Is it too late to walk off the stage?_

"Three!" the crowd counts down. "Two!"

I close my eyes, breathing hard. "One!" Wait, I can't do this with my eyes closed. I open them and throw the dagger. Immediately I feel an electric shock running past me and my knees weaken. I don't want to look, but I know I have to...

Sherlock is smiling as he shows the crowd the stabbed apple. I don't think I can remain standing up anymore. The crowd keeps cheering but I think they are all masochists, and refuse to take the praise as a compliment.

And Rose?

I turn to see her walking into the stage with another showbiz smile gracefully pointing at me. Behind her there is a cloud of thick smoke erupting from backstage, where she's got rid of the criminal manager on her own. She was a soldier, after all, sided by a magician-equipped Sherlock that created a chemical smoke curtain at her disposal. She must have activated it when everyone's gaze was on the apple and dagger. Even her captor's.

I sigh, exhausted, she's leading me off the stage by hand. For a mere second her hand feels oddly familiar, reminding me of Mary. I must be more exhausted than I think.

Yet again, there's quite a lot I don't know of Mary's background. Maybe these two are related somehow.

As Sherlock is meeting us quietly at the edge of the stage, I can see the French Police discretely making their entrance to the tent, securing the place.

It's another miracle of Sherlock's doing as far as I'm concerned.

_**.**_

'Have another glass of water, John', Sherlock directs me casually, blatantly ignoring the fact that I've spilled water from the first glass because of my shaking hands. Delayed shock is settling, I diagnose myself easily. 'I thought you enjoyed the adrenaline rush', he spikes me, to gauge my reaction.

I nod, non-concomitantly.

'And the stolen property?' I ask at last.

'The Police will return it to the genuine owner.' He shrugs, and cuts a piece of the apple he kept, using the knife that came along with it. As if it was only natural.

'And Rose?' She was definitely one of the heroes tonight.

'She's gone.'

The rest of the circus crew must have left, then. Gone on with the show to their next stop, as if nothing has happened, feeding off their unity in adversity.

'I see.'

'No, you don't', Sherlock contradicts me. I frown in confusion and look up to him, inquiringly. 'It turns out we didn't tell you everything, John.'

_Hm?..._

He rolls his eyes, childishly. 'Mary says I need to say that I'm sorry, even if you know that I'm not.'

'What...?' I mutter.

'And even if personally I'd think you should be able to recognise your own wife working undercover as a fortune teller.'

_Mary is Rose._ The soft touch of the hand. I recognised it, only my brain couldn't process it. The familiarity in Rose, that I led to my fast acceptance of her and her story. Sherlock siding with her at once. Rose as an older woman covered in veils and jewellery to distract me from the pregnancy and her true features. Even the mock scars, product of well-applied prosthetics, I assume. Most of all, why come along and keep it a secret?

Sherlock has been eyeing me carefully. Finally, he details: 'You wouldn't want her to come, worried about her condition. Mary, on the other hand, assures me she is pregnant, not ill.'

'She had a knife held against her!' I scream at Sherlock, instantly enraged.

'Slight miscalculations there, I'll admit it', he tells me calmly. All the while his light coloured eyes are uncertain, carrying guilt. He planned for Mary to be safe all along, only he couldn't quite control it. 'And I told you you'd be fine on stage.'

I shake my head, still chewing on the revelations. 'Wait a minute, Mary won't let me have my gun at the house – which, by the way, would have been extremely useful today – but she's willing to put her life at risk?'

'Told you it was a miscalculation, John. Will you catch up already?' he asks, impatiently.

'Why did you lie to me?' I demand to know.

'Its' hardly the first time', he grumps.

'That's not an answer!'

'Mary and I planned the whole thing', he tells me, proudly. 'She was bored of babysitting all day and asked me for a case away from home.' His attitude leaves me speechless, borderline catatonic. '_Just drop it, John_, and let's get you back home. Unless you really want to join a circus.'

'I'm quite sure the world has seen enough of Dagger John, Sherlock', I claim, again.

'Too bad. You had potential.'

I recall the apple in his hands at stage. 'You trust me too much sometimes, Sherlock.'

'Nonsense, John.'

_**.**_


	55. Chapter 55

_A/N: Short? Check. Silly? Double check. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

It's late in the evening and we're standing at the small backyard behind 221A, where Mrs Hudson keeps her bins and some plants. Greg Lestrade has been called on the scene by an upset and laconic Mrs Hudson, complaining of breaking and entering in her kitchen. Sherlock was immediately speed-dialled, Mycroft was put on hold for the moment before the whole of a SWAT team was deployed to the scene, and I got a text from Greg asking me to come along to the scene and mediate... Sherlock. Apparently he saw it happen.

As I arrive breathlessly through 221A, Greg and Sherlock are standing in the small patio. Mrs Hudson is at the moment with Mrs Turner and her "married ones" as Sherlock strives to give his best testimonial evidence possible.

'You saw it was a woman, coming out of 221A Baker Street's back door. Oh, hi, John!' Greg greets me and returns to his notepad. He must be having some difficulty containing Sherlock, I'd guess. For now, Sherlock is grumpily sat over one of the bins, like a sulky child (genius) as Greg insists: 'What was the colour of the woman's dress?'

I admire Greg's professionalism, although I seriously doubt anyone at the Yard will care about the dress (easy to change). He's still trying to impress in Sherlock the notion of a thorough job. _Before the SWAT team gets summoned, I imagine._

'The dress? Potassium permanganate in a two percent aqueous solution', Sherlock answers seriously as he holds up a bag of ice as if he has a bruised arm (and ego).

Greg turns to me expectantly. I shrug. Yes, I know how to speak _Sherlock_. 'Purple.'

The detective frowns, glancing darkly at me. _Because "2% KMnO__4__ (aq)" is not an adequate entry in a police log, Sherlock, that's why._

'And how tall was she, Sherlock?' Greg moves on.

'Three quarters of the height of the Rhododendron by the side window, measured from the tallest branch to the beginning of the root system.'

Greg looks at me. I make the mental maths as fast as I can. 'Just over five feet tall.'

Greg scribbles down my answer. Sherlock audibly sighs and rolls his eyes.

'Any other identifying features, Sherlock?'

'British descent but specific mannerisms denouncing a period of time spent abroad in America, a faded callus on her right index finger showing an artistic background. A very distinctive necklace with a rime stone underneath a silver piece, partially concealed by the ruffles in the front of the dress.'

'Well... that's thorough', Greg compliments, admiringly. He's looking down to his notebook, probably trying to see what he can actually make of that information.

As for me, I'm frowning, it's dawning on me. The necklace... 'Sherlock, are you telling us you were slapped by Mrs Hudson?'

_That necklace was a gift from Sherlock for her birthday._

As I'm flabbergasted, looking at Sherlock, Greg is speechless, and Sherlock is rubbing his bruised cheekbone. _Must have been quite a slap._

'Yes', he finally admits. To my look of quiet triumph he growls: '_Just drop it, John_. Gloating doesn't suit you.' _I'm not gloating; not anymore, I'm giggling._

'You could have told us that!' Greg admonishes as he closes shut the notepad in despair.

'Sherlock?' I call him, more quietly. 'Can you tell us what happened?' _How much smoothing need I work on Mrs H to clear this mess?_

He looks down. 'I ran out of fridge space for my samples and I didn't want them to go to waste. Mrs Hudson didn't know.'

Greg's smiling now, I shake my head with a sigh. 'Come along, Sherlock. Let's go and apologise', I start guiding him along.

'And my samples?'

'Why don't we get you a second fridge?'

'I already have one!' he insists, non-genius-like.

'One of these days she'll kick you out of 221B, Sherlock.'

'No, she won't!' he shakes his head, certain of it.

He's got a point. She won't._ I know I had worse and the idea of moving out of 221B never crossed my mind._

_**.**_


	56. Chapter 56

_A/N: Because I'm fairly convinced there's a throw-away line in the original books about Watson having had gambling issues. I've been trying to browse through to produce it here, but haven't found it in such short notice. I'm quite sure I remember it because I found it odd at the time. (This being quite a number of years ago, when I read the original stories.) On occasion I've thrown the line around as well, for fun, but not really giving it any purpose.  
__I guess this is my attempt at making sense of it. –csf_

* * *

_**.**_

In the dark smoky backroom it's six of us around a dingy lit poker table. I've only just arrived here and I know everybody's tells. First I lost some money, now I'm stacking up the chips. The man cutting the cards glances darkly at me. All he sees is a short sturdy man with a crumpled unbuttoned shirt over a white tank top, scrutinising his hand movements. Just this one last game, then I really will go. My phone has been vibrating silenced in my pocket every ten minutes. Mary's out of town, could be her asking me why I'm not standing by the landline, waiting to hear from her. I'd answer it's because the novelty has worn off. She's always away lately. I'm not one to stay at home and wait. I'm a soldier, I need to be out and about. In this instance – I realise as I'm picking up the dealt cards – I need to make a hell of a bluff or give in.

I smirk and look up. _Daredevil bluff it is._

I take the pint glass with my eyes stuck on the cigar smoker and the granny sitting next to him. He's got money to waste and she's been counting cards.

'Let me in, I need to speak to John!'

Oh, it's Sherlock, I recognise the voice, from the door behind me, but I won't turn to face my personal stalker. I bet Mary put him up to this.

_You're just in time to see me rack up another win here, Sherlock._

'John, I know you can hear me!' He sounds annoyed. I won't disengage my eyes from the cards on the stained emerald green velvet table.

'Will you just let me in?'

'Or else?' the man at the door dares.

'I'll throw you to the floor.'

_Nice try, Sherlock. He's two feet taller and one wider than you._

'My friend is a doctor, he can fix you afterwards', Sherlock insists. He then gives up, reasonably: 'How much is it to join the table?'

'Fifty.'

'John, lend me fifty pounds?'

I just roll my eyes as the only reaction. I can hear him searching his pockets. 'There! Now can I get John?'

'I don't care', the doorman actually states. Sherlock ignores him and comes directly to me. 'John, didn't you hear me?'

'Busy, Sherlock', I assure him calmly, drinking my pint.

'John, I've texted you directions for a case.'

'I'll meet you there later.'

'When?' he demands, petulant. I guess he's not used to hear me say that.

'When I'm done.'

'You've been here a long time, John.' He actually sounds worried.

'An hour, tops.'

'You've been here all night long and you are late for the clinic this morning. When you didn't show up they called you and you didn't pick up. Then they called me. Out of habit, I think.' He shrugs, apologetic.

'Lovely', I reply, absent-mindedly.

Sherlock makes a decision and glances over my shoulder to my cards, exaggeratedly, and smirks confidently. Immediately the smoker and the granny forfeit. _I didn't need your help, Sherlock!_

'Take the chips and come with me now. Please, _just drop it, John_.'

I shake my head. 'Just one more.'

'John.'

The gangster youth across the table intercedes: 'Leave him alone, weirdo!'

_No, you don't get to insult my friend._ I get up at once, starting a chain reaction at the table. Sherlock's already grabbing my chips and moves away to trade them for cash and force me out. I'm more concerned with the foolish lad that thinks he can mess with me. I realise Sherlock glances at me, then widens his light-coloured eyes and advances rushing back, to stop me at once. 'John', he insists on saying my name and grabs me by my shirt sleeve. Inadvertently he's pulling it down on my arm and showing my scared shoulder. With now frightened eyes stuck on it, the lad backs out. _I guess it gives me a reputation._

'I'm just here to play cards', he says.

So was I. Which reminds me of Sherlock, still holding me down. I give him a dark look. He tells me frankly: 'You're drunk and exhausted, John. Not to mention you're developing a gambling addiction to fill your life with some adrenaline now the war is over and you have a boring married life.' I tilt my head to the side, daring him to (not) say another word... I can see it isn't quite what he planned as he started deducing me out loud. 'The case, John?' he cuts himself short.

_Think I'm always available, don't you, Sherlock?_ Something in my poisoned smirk hits a chord in Sherlock because he actually steps back, stunned.

'John', he's looking for recognition in my face, I just grab my shirt back up my shoulder and turn away. 'Where are you going, John?' _He won't back off._

'To work.'

'You can't. You're in no condition to go to work. You'd regret it.'

I shrug my shoulders. _I don't care._

'I told them you had the flu. They're not expecting you today', Sherlock tells me.

'I guess for lies I can always count on you', I give him the cheap shot. Still he keeps following me like a shadow, by the doorman, the small staircase back to the alleyway and into the street. 'How did you find me?' I ask over the shoulder, at last. 'Mycroft?'

'Homeless network. I have connections all over the city. They saw you walk in here last night. I got worried.'

_Sherlock, worrying about someone else – that's a first._ I grump, under my breath.

Suddenly I halt, confused. Sherlock takes the chance to hammer it in: 'Come with me to Baker Street.'

'I thought there was a case', I remind him, jittery.

'You're in no condition for a case either, John.'

_When did he become the reasonable one?_

'Where's my jacket?' I look all around.

'You left it at home', he tells me calmly, after a small ponder. 'On the sofa.'

'How do you even know that?'

'I went there, looking for you. Obviously.'

'You haven't got a key.'

'That never stopped me before.' He smiles, hoping to see me do the same.

I shake my head to dissipate the growing headache. My friend keeps insisting:

'You need to give in this time, John. Trust me.'

I look back over my shoulder, in the poker table's direction. 'I left my earnings back there.'

'No, I cashed them in for you.' Again he takes my arm, tense. As if he fears I'll turn to go back there. I look down, startled by how warm his hand feels through the shirt's fabric, against my cold skin. I really should have brought my jacket in the cold winter days.

'Keep it, Sherlock', I mumble under my breath, at last. He's piercing me with his metallic eyes as he finally deduces:

'This wasn't about the poker game or the money. You didn't come here to either win or lose. You came here... looking for someone. John, you've got a case of your own – and you didn't call me.'

I finally look up sincerely at my friend. _How had I ever hoped to keep it a secret from him?_ He was bound to read me at last. I sigh and finally release the story I was holding inside me:

'A young officer that served under me. He was on leave in London. He always had a gambling _trouble_. I did my fair share of poker when I was deployed as well, we all did. It helped pass the time. No one heard from him since he contacted me. I had to come, Sherlock. I was trying to fit in, Sherlock. I was trying to gain their confidence, so I could follow leads, and make deductions, and all those things you do.'

'That's why you didn't want to leave. Or discuss cases in front of them.' He's looking at me like I actually managed to surprise him for once.

'It sort of blown my cover, yes', I give him a faint smile. I really don't feel like smiling.

'I can help you, John.'

I close my eyes for a second, as exhaustion is washing down over me. 'I really need your help', I give in, for a lost friend, one of my men. 'But, your case?'

'It's the Yard's case, they can wait. Must not get them used to us being always available. Gives out entirely the wrong impression', he tells me confidently.

We both smile at last.

'Let's get you showered and freshened up at Baker Street, then we'll go back at finding your first officer, John.'

'I'm fine, we can do it now.'

'No, you really aren't', he tells me with conviction and a head shake. I pull back the shirt over my shoulder, realising the fabric is slightly ripped. 'We'll get you a clean shirt and some food.'

'We need to find Chandler.'

'You need to take some elementary care of yourself first, while I get the word out of your first officer to my network.'

I finally feel relieved. _That could work._ Sherlock adds: 'Just so you know, John, you really should have come to me first... And I'll use this example in the future, to illustrate your gambling addiction, every time you insist you don't have one.'

_Ha, ha, very (not) funny, Sherlock._

_**.**_

* * *

_2__nd__ A/N: To me, this feels like it should have a continuation, but I ran out of gas. (My bad.) I may come back to it, if it seems fit, and if a resolution comes my way while I brush up a few other - just as unruly - stories. –csf_


	57. Chapter 57

_A/N: It came out like this. __May still be more to this, not sure. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Usually it's Sherlock's cases that bring me to the hospital, or a mandatory brush-up training course in emergency care for the Clinic. Whichever way, it's usually quite fast. Always less than a day, or one – two at the most – nurse shifts.

Even as a visitor, it never sums up long hours. Sherlock avoids hospitals like the plague because "they are boring, John, and you're a doctor!", and other friends have also had their fair share of (more scarce) misfortune. I tend to be considered by all of them as a good visitor. I bring them comforts, news, and translate doctor's gibberish writings on the patient's chart into plain common English. As I say, they're never long stays.

This time it's different.

I'm in for a routine surgery – as routine as operating on a mangled-up old war wound can ever be. The surgeon is bracing himself for quite some work, the blood analysis are in, my clothes lay neatly arranged in a pile at the visitor's chair, the hospital gown is white, too short and unpleasant – but in no time I will be worrying about none of that. The anaesthesiologist should be coming in shortly.

I lied and cheated all the way, so no one would come and visit me. Only Sherlock knows, and it wasn't for the lack of trying to keep it a secret. I couldn't help it, but at least he won't be showing up because hospitals are boring. It's a relief not having to go around explaining what's up with my shoulder (I got shot, what more can there be to say?), minimise the risks of the intervention (I'm trained to be fully aware of them) or play down the inevitable pain level following the intervention. My secrecy status was intended, planned, executed. Unfortunately there was a kink in my plan, Sherlock found out. But I made him keep quiet about it.

It was actually easy to make him agree to secrecy.

"Would you keep it a secret, Sherlock? For me?"

It worked. Never once in his life that man cared about my requests for my laptop to remain only at my disposal, or my pleads for him to eat and sleep more, or even my demands that he'd stop enumerating my previous girlfriends to the one at the time. Suddenly he accepts my secrecy over this one small thing with no complaints.

I feel guilty as I've probably been previously a little bit harsh with my friend...

All of this is out of his comfort zone anyway. This is why keeping him at bay just as everyone else is meant to be a gift for him as well as for me. Of course it wasn't that easy to start with. And if I'm here now, it's mostly due to him, anyway. It started with the beginning of the week. Monday, to be precise.

_**.**_

_**.**_

By the end of a long shift at the clinic, full of life's curveballs, only Sherlock's lit name at the caller's ID could perk me up so instantly. Breathing fast, I'm crossing the parking lot in the brisk cold air at the end of the day and, all tiredness gone, I pull the phone up to my ear with building excitement.

'Sherlock!' _Is it a case?_ I can head straight to Baker Street from here, take the subway, be there in twenty minutes, tops.

My detective friend's voice comes calm and collected. 'You've got a terrible doctor, John. Also, you're scheduled for a shoulder routine pre-op consultation that you have already postponed three times.'

I end up halting suddenly as I digest Sherlock's fast speech. _Shit, he knows._

'Yes, I'm aware of that', I state calmly, in what I hope is in a mingle of privacy-demanding tone and a contemptuous don't-you-dare undertone.

'You're having major surgery by the end of the week', Sherlock states, suddenly out of breath, it seems over the phone call.

'No', I assure him at once. '_No_, it's not major, it's routine. And _no_, I'm postponing it again.' In real life, a car halts briskly, I realise I've been standing in the middle of the parking lot's road, shocked by Sherlock's inside knowledge. 'How did you make my doctor call you anyway?' I ask suspiciously, as I get a move on.

'He's not very good, is he?' Now Sherlock is in full despise mode, about my own doctor. Present company excluded, it appears he's not much into GP's. 'You didn't return his calls, John, so he used your previous contact details to try to reach you.'

What happened to doctor-patient's confidentiality? I bet Sherlock pretended to be me in the phone call. _There must be a law somewhere stating that impersonating your friend is a felony, Sherlock..._ 'Well, I guess he's a good doctor, then. He's thorough. My last doctor never did that.'

'You've done it lots, John, always caring about your average-diseased patients!' Sherlock snarls, tense, speeding up now. 'I'm to let you know that you've got blood drawing for analysis scheduled for tomorrow, so no more eating tonight.'

I smirk to myself. _No way, I'm hungry and I'm not spilling blood into a vial for surgery that I'm not having. _'Never mind that, Sherlock. I'll call him tomorrow to let him know I'm not available.'

I hear the pause in Sherlock's breathing. _I thought he'd be happy_. 'John...' _I don't think he quite understood my refusal._

'How would I help you with your cases then?' I try to remind him that I'm too busy.

'John', he starts again, more decisively now, 'I need you to come by Baker Street at once.'

'Is it a case, then?' I suspect of his motives.

There may be a slight hesitation but he firms at once, setting me at ease: 'Yes, John.'

_**.**_

'The murderer is all yours, detective inspector!' Sherlock proclaims brilliantly, standing up from the ground where it took both him and me to wrestle the huge heavy monster that took out eight lives with his bare hands and eluded Scotland Yard for a month.

Greg Lestrade whistles appreciatively as he takes in the scene at the dark alley. He gestures to the officers that came running in along with him for them to take custody of the murderer. _Sherlock and I did the hard part of the catch, as usual._

'You'll find the phone he used to lure his victims to alleys like this in his pocket, Lestrade', Sherlock adds on, glancing at me. I'm already smiling in awe. It's like handing in a gift, all wrapped up and delivered to the Yard.

'Great job, Sherlock!' It's actually Greg the first one to congratulate the detective. He finds me with a complicity look only to doubt at once: 'You okay there, John?'

I nod sharply, rubbing my shoulder over the jacket. Sherlock won't fail to glance at me. He looks slightly annoyed. _It's not as if I can help it, Sherlock._ But then again Sherlock can only guess what this is about. I told him I needed to postpone my routine procedure to assist him in his cases, I can't let him down now. I can't allow my body to let me down.

'Wanna grab a pint after this is done, John?' Greg adds, still intent on me. Then, as an afterthought, he includes for the sake of the obvious refuse: 'And you, Sherlock?'

Before I can answer, Sherlock cuts us off: 'John can't. We've got more cases.'

Greg frowns and points to the criminal being dragged away. 'You've just solved a case.'

'Maybe if the Yard wasn't so inefficient...' Sherlock despises airily. And to me he particularises: 'We'll need to swing by Baker Street first.'

'You've got a case there?' I try to understand.

'No, I've got plenty of cases, you work too much on your regular boring job. Need to catch up, John! And I need to change my shirt, this one got all crumpled up', Sherlock says very fast, again maniacally leading the way. With a smirk and a shoulder shrug to Greg, I follow my crazy friend as always.

_**.**_

I think I fell asleep in 221B's long sofa. Silly of me, I was tired and hungry. Sherlock's cases ran me over till half past four in the morning. I just let myself collapse on the sofa to rest a couple of minutes and time flew by.

I got woken up by the door bell. _Apparently Sherlock took care of defrosting it._ Now he's coming upstairs with some guest or client. Well, this is embarrassing. I try to clear off in time but it's useless. At the expense of my sleep-drunken state Sherlock introduces a fully-uniformed nurse into 221B.

'Roll up your sleeve, John. She says it'll only take a minute to collect a blood sample for your doctor.'

_What in the world—?_

_**.**_

_**.**_

_I'm here, John. Can you hear me? I've been here the whole time. You've done very well, John. I shouldn't be surprised. You're a doctor yourself. It took a bit longer than they predicted because of all the scar tissue on your shoulder, they had a hard time around it. They substituted the fixed plate for a permanent one, and it should be more comfortable._

_Never realised you had been shot so low, John. _You said shoulder, John. Shoulder.

_All in all, it was incredibly_ lucky._ I know it wouldn't have felt lucky, not then, and not _after.

_I saw the scar tissue as you lay at the operating table. I saw your muscles and bones, and for a second it was as if you weren't at an operating table, you were in one of Molly's autopsy cold stainless steel tables, and..._

_They almost kicked me out, John. I just never _knew_ till then._

_I read about it, in your file. All the statistics, all the data, I could recite it from memory, all forty-seven pages long. I knew all your file in case they didn't and they needed to ask. I knew it all and yet I had never... _seen it.

They didn't ask, John.

_I would have told them everything. Anything._

_It was all I could have done as my part to keep you safe._

In the end it was useless.

_You had it all under control, you were right._

_I still needed to make sure._

_You wouldn't understand that. You play tough and I play along. But in that table, when they were hurting you to make you better, it didn't make sense, how hard it was._

Is it always like this?

_I can't imagine what it's like for you to be a doctor and deal with this – even if just a tenth of this – every day, every hour._

_I really wish you'd wake up now. I could use a John Watson by my side, right now._

_But I'm glad I can see you doze off so peacefully._

_Don't fight it, you're allowed to take your time._ _Just drop it, John. I've got your back while you're in here._

_I know you hate hospitals as much as I do._

_**.**_

_**.**_

'...Sher_—_?'

I blink, trying to refocus the world. _Feels like a futile exercise to me. _The anaesthesia must be wearing off too, for I feel like I've been through hell and back.

'John, this is boring.'

I look over at the visitor's chair. Sherlock's sitting in the tiny uncomfortable chair with his long legs folded up, hugging them over the knees. Hadn't seen him doing that in quite a while. _He looks like a restless kid on a time out._

It's comforting to notice the warm light in his green tinged eyes despite the studied cold expression of his words.

Slowly but demandingly I feel the need to giggle. Maybe it's the meds, this is hardly a fun situation. Maybe it's relief and joy to have someone by my side when my shoulder is throbbing so bad that I could have sworn I was back at being evacuated to the UK, leaving the army base behind for one last time. My giggle turns into cough and it fuzzes the world around the edges. Sherlock unfolds himself and leans in calmly to me with a glass of water in his hand, helping me to reach it and sooth my scratched throat. This is really nothing like I was expecting, this side of Sherlock, soft and patient. I can tell he's pressing the nurse call button by my fingertips for me, as he withdraws the water.

'I'm fine, Sherlock... Don't need a nurse... They have more patients to tend to.' My voice is growing stronger at every sentence. He nods at my words, to let me know he's heard them, and giving them no further notice. _Typical Sherlock._

'Have some more sleep, John. It'll help pass the time.'

I frown. Something is gathering in the cloudy fog of my memory. Don't know if it's a recollection of a monologue or a medication-induced delirium.

'Sherlock... Been here long?' I ask him.

'Enough', he tells me cryptically, as the nurse is coming in. To my surprise, Sherlock gets up to talk to the nurse, away from me. I strain to listen, in vain. Worst than that, I start to doze off again.

_I'm counting on you to keep watch, Sherlock._

_**.**_


	58. Chapter 58

_A/N: Yes, I kept going. (Can't explain myself.) There's a turn of events and tone after this post, so at least one more. -csf_

* * *

_**. continuation of the last one .**_

I woke up with a silenced scream that erects me from the cold crumpled sheets in alertness. Next thing I crumble in half, a throbbing shoulder pain knocking down any pretence of strength left in me. I'm shaky, sweaty, standing precariously in the limbo between past and present. Confused, all I know for sure is that I'm in miserable pain and it'll never end.

'John? Can you hear me?'

I glance to the ghostly lanky form reaching out to me. In the night time infirmary dimmed lights, he looks so pale, almost translucent. I see him reach forward and hold my arm, setting himself almost too close to me, and yet I can't feel his fingertips that I clearly see pressing on my skin. I can't tell which of us is the ghost here.

I can't tell if I'm awake or asleep at this point.

I can hear my friend's well known voice as if reaching me through the mist, as I fight to regain control of my body, so I can curl up and hide from the world.

'It's okay, John. I promise you it's okay. It may not feel that way, but you are alright.'

Adrenaline draining out of my system, suddenly all my strength is gone, I'm falling from his grasp as a wave of weakness washes over me. Sherlock must be the one holding me together, his voice is my only connection with this reality.

Sherlock's always been the brainy one out of the two of us against crime. It's no surprise I drink in his words as he pacifies me by making sense of it all:

'It was just a nightmare. I know that when you came to London you had nightmares, but they ran out. Of course they came back now, John. This new surgery brought in all sorts of sensorial memories from the time you were shot and sent back. I should have anticipated you relieving those first days... You're a handful of trouble, John...' he whispers softly. Then he looks away, clears his throat and pretends not to care while he adds: 'You kept me here, away from my cases, because I _need_ an assistant. So now you need to bear through this one more time, so we can go away. There are cases to be solved, John.'

His words remind me of happier times, and Baker Street, and violin music drifting in the air. Slowly it grounds me.

I nod, on the right side of the timeline at last, focusing on the present and what got me to this hospital room. Routine surgery on my left shoulder. Been evading it as much as I could, in the end I had to give in. It happened hours ago, it's still too fresh and the anaesthesia got me a bit confused, that's all.

I'm here because I had surgery. Sherlock's here because... _I really don't know._ Maybe I'm the subject of his latest blog entry (use of disinfectants in hospitals? scar pattern formation in surgical wounds? pesticide residue level embedded in paper cup coffees?) and he's having a long kip in the visitor's chair for mysterious reasons of his own. I didn't ask him. I wouldn't have submitted him to this boring existence. Don't have a clue how much longer he'll hold out before causing a riot with the medical team. And when that happens, it's fine, I—

_It's not fine._ Sherlock's presence has been making all of this attainable for me. But I can't keep him from fulfilling his life's mission for the sake of some company. I'm a washed-up soldier with a messed-up shoulder. Last thing I need is to be the one holding the great Sherlock Holmes back. _I wouldn't have believed I could do that._

_It must be a blog entrance on scar formation._ It will certainly help him solve cases at crime scenes. Any of the other possibilities he could study easily with the general public. This one is more tricky, being a touchy subject by nature.

'John, it's still early in the morning. You can go back to sleep.'

Faking a smile, I recline back. I realise I'm not fooling him, he can see right through me.

_**.**_

I woke up to a room with plenty of flowers and cards. At first I assumed it was a mistake. No one knows me here but Sherlock. Anyway finding out who the gifts were really intended to would make a good distraction for my friend, that hasn't abandoned the visitor's chair yet.

Only... in the last couple of minutes I realised the flowers are actually intended for me. And the greeting cards too. There's one with an innocent looking sandy kitten holding a gun, from Greg. He's got a strange sense of humour. There's a couple of proper ones, with flowery best wishes from Molly and the biggest one in the store from Mrs Hudson, and one from Mike Stanford (him, being a doctor and all, smartly buys in bulk). And these are only the ones prominently in display. There's a bigger back row to understand.

_But not now, I think I'm going to be sick right now._

'Easy, breathe slowly, John. In and out.'

My gaze wanders to Sherlock, still emotionally invested in that uncomfortable visitor's chair, telling me how to breathe.

'You told them!' I point angrily to the cards and their authors. 'I asked you not to tell them.'

He smirks as if he knows something I don't.

'You should know by now that I don't break a promise, John. I kept quiet, as you asked me.'

I frown. How have they known then? Sherlock, as always, reads my mind and answers with that same smirk: 'Mike Stanford, on the other hand, wasn't obliged to any secrecy.'

'What about doctor-patient's confidentiality?'

'It only applies to your own doctor, as you well know, doctor Watson.'

'And how did he know, to begin with?'

'Doctor-doctor's conversation, I believe. This is a teaching hospital, you wouldn't have chosen a different hospital for your routine surgery. You wanted your situation to be used for something good, to be a teaching tool to young doctors, get some good out of it all even if not for yourself. Or maybe deep inside you didn't want to feel so alone.' He shrugs. 'You had medical students looking in on your surgery. Mike Stanford's students included. I think you gave him quite a shock at first. Then he looked very pleased to say that on the operating table was an old mate and a brave man. He looked... emotional.'

_Now I'm definitely going to be sick._

'Wait a minute', I try to push through for logic. 'How do you even know that, Sherlock? You weren't there!'

Sherlock suddenly blanks his expression, looking away. I realise it must mean that again I've been too gruff.

'Sorry, I... Never meant you were supposed to be there, Sherlock. It feels awkward enough to have had Mike there, even if he was there just because of his students. I just thought...'

_I don't really know anymore what I thought._

_I close my eyes, trying to breathe it through._ I feel Sherlock's fingers brush past my hand and press the button for a nurse.

_**.**_

A couple of hours later and Greg is coming in, with his camera phone on his hand. He's addicted to those lets-embarrass-your-mate amateur videos. I'm glad Sherlock managed to keep him off thus far.

'John! Want to smile for the camera?' _Not really._ I smile meekly in response to his request. 'Come on, John! You can do better than that for your first visitor!' He doesn't seem to be aware that Sherlock has been here all along. Speaking of which, he's vanished all of a sudden and the visitor's chair is empty for Greg to use. 'Looking disorientated in his own turf, here we have a prime example of that elusive creature of a doctor, camouflaging as a patient', Greg narrates inventively. Then pulling down his camera phone for a second he tells me more persuasively: 'You look like hell, John. I take it wasn't easy. What were you in here for anyway? Mike said something about your shoulder.'

'Routine surgery', I let on at once, before he can get himself worked up. Greg grimaces anyway.

'I had no idea, mate. Why didn't you tell us?' I try shrugging as an answer. As a second thought, that wasn't particularly clever. 'Easy now, John. You need to give yourself time to heal.'

'Yeah', croaky, closing my eyes tight.

In the back of my mind I can still hear Greg shuffle in his seat uncomfortably. But one thing about Greg Lestrade is that he's a kind patient man, and he decently waits for me to collect myself and look at him again.

'Better, mate?' he asks, concerned.

'Yeah', I try to convince myself.

'This is just routine, you said?'

'Yeah.'

'Any more after this one?'

I shake my head briefly.

Greg ponders quietly: 'You're not very talkative, John. Well, I mustn't tire you out. I'll tell Sherlock to swing by, I'll make him listen to me this once.' He smirks in complicity. Again I understand that Greg doesn't know Sherlock has been around. Again I choose not to tell him. There's something in the idea of this quiet secret that appeals to me. Maybe it best protects my dignity at a vulnerable time, maybe it reminds me of a couple of kids plotting mischief together, I'm not even sure. Who knows, I may be trying to protect Sherlock's distant genius image for him.

'Keep him out of trouble for me, Greg.' _Why did I just ask this?_

'God, no, thanks! I'm just a mere mortal man', he snorts, amused.

_**.**_

'Molly, what are you doing here? You're wasting your lunch hour to come and visit.' She shouldn't, there really was no need.

'Can't I come visit a friend?' she asks softly.

'Sherlock is...' _don't know. _' ...somewhere else at the moment.'

'Silly, I came to visit you', she smiles awkwardly and comes to take the visitor's chair.

There's a residual instinct n Molly Hooper that pushes her to find in every situation a proof that she's on my side, ever since Reichenbach. No need, really. I'm thankful that she's helped Sherlock, and as far as I'm concerned, that's the end of it. She smiles to this farce, and it's unnatural and contrived. _She deserved better._ Feeling bad for doing Sherlock's bidding. I know very well how persuasive and manipulative our crazy endearing friend can be.

'Thank you for the card, Molly. It really... lightens up the room.' _Glitter and all._

_That actually sounded a bit mean, what is wrong with me?_

'I hoped you would like it', she states bravely. I think she's noticed. She's very good at reading Sherlock and somehow she's managed to read me as well.

'I didn't mean it that way', I tell her honestly, following more the unspoken conversation than the real one.

'You're a soldier and a doctor, John. Didn't want anything that would trigger painful memories. No one dislikes flowers, do they?' she smirks shyly, not really aware of the power that she's holding in the room.

'You may have outdone Greg with your logic', I smile, pointing out the armed kitten's card. She smiles freely at last.

'So, how has it been, John?'

'You are a doctor, you can imagine.'

'My patients don't feel a thing anymore.'

I shift uncomfortably in the raised bed. 'Wish I was more like them... No, no, I didn't mean it', I respond to her brown eyes growing bigger. 'I've been a bit cranky. More honestly, _a lot_ cranky. Sorry, I just need to get out of here.'

'John...' she presses her lips thin. 'I know you want to hide and take cover, and not come out of your hidey-hole till you are fine again. I've seen you do that before, when you lost your best friend at St Bart's', she anticipated my retort. 'I won't let you do that again, none of us will. And Sherlock should really be here, right now, and I'm going to find him, and tell him off for that.'

'Don't', I whisper, pleadingly. I'd be more persuasive but for some reason the whole room is spinning too fast, under the loud heart beats reverberating in my chest.

'John?' Molly sounds shocked, I register at some deep level of my foggy mind. 'Sugar!'

Her curse loosens up a giggle that gets lost somewhere in the fog, a loud ringing filling my ears.

_**.**_

_John, can you hear me? I know you can, don't be lazy, squeeze my hand with your fingers, come on._

_It was a bad allergic reaction, Molly and I took the IV out, a doctor is giving you an adrenaline shot and it should start clearing up in no time._

_I should have been here, and I won't let you out of my sight again._

_Come on, John, come back..._

'Did any of you read his medical file, you lazy sods? His allergies are featured in detail in pages one, three, twenty-one and forty-nine! When I find out who did this, I'll make them pay!'

Sherlock's thunderous voice is a vicious growl in the eerily quiet room. _I haven't a clue why he's so mad._ I drift back to consciousness in a vicious kick to the system, courtesy of the adrenaline. Immediately he lowers his gaze to me and his whole demeanour reflects relief. His expression softens up one second later.

'John, don't you ever do that again!'

_I don't know what you're on about, Sherlock. I mean it._ I push away the oxygen mask and notice the life support machine. My cardiac rhythm is stabilising but I can still spot some signs of the previous arrhythmia. _Not good._ My gaze wanders back to Sherlock. He's always the one who can make sense of every problem. _Allergic reaction_, he said. Someone got my meds mixed up, I suppose. Hadn't Molly been at the room at the time, my crisis might have gone unnoticed. I don't need to be under constant surveillance anymore. _Needn't be._ There will definitely be a new alert level on the next couple of hours. But I'm momentarily too tired to care.

Sherlock seems to be listening in to my thoughts as he observes me attentively, for he assures me cryptically: 'I'll keep an eye out, John. And I'll get to the bottom of this.'

His words are the proof that he doesn't equate this incident as a malpractice error. He believes it was intentional.

Someone wanted to finish me off and found opportunity at my most vulnerable state.

_This time I earned my right to be sick, regardless of the spectators in the room._

_**.**_


	59. Chapter 59

_A/N: And yes, I kept going some more. I've scrapped it, and reshaped it, and finally got this. One more to go. -csf_

* * *

_**. continuation of the last two .**_

I've been sleeping most of the day. Sherlock has taken the executive decision of barring the entrance for further visitors into my hospital room (feels more like _our_ room, for he refuses to leave it now). No complaints from me, or for his decision to keep as a general secret the attempted murder of John Watson by means of a severe allergic reaction. Molly will also keep our secret. _She's good at it_, according to Sherlock.

_I know._

Night time is setting over London's landscape, outside the window. Sherlock is dozing off himself in that uncomfortable visitor's chair.

_I never asked him to stay. _It wouldn't be fair. He must be exhausted by now.

_Feels safe, to see him there._

A tall thin male nurse comes in, chart in hand. I respond instinctively with a gut twist. More medication, another shot.

_Wish I was out of here already._

Being a doctor myself, it takes me no more than a couple of seconds to notice he's not doing it right. You're supposed to check the vitals first and write them down, he must be a lazy trainee. I close my eyes tiredly as I try not to flinch at the approach of another loaded syringe to my IV.

_I hate this IV, I hate this hospital room, I hate it all._

I'm suddenly brought back to the moment by a swift flexible movement by my side. Sherlock has sprung from his chair, and is grabbing the syringe with one hand and the nurse's collar with the other.

'Who are you working for?' he growls, menacingly.

I'm left stunned, looking at Sherlock and the man, trying to see what Sherlock thinks he saw.

_He did see it. _That's the wrong needle size for the IV valve. Wherever he got it from, he came in here with it without a doctor's knowledge. Whatever that liquid is, it was meant for me. _To kill me._

Sherlock's effectively wrestling the opponent to submission when all the room's lights go off. The sudden darkness is disorienting, and hurried footsteps out of the room are a tell that Sherlock lost him in the end.

'John?' he asks immediately, through the darkness. 'Are you okay?'

'Yeah! You?'

'He got away!' Sherlock answers with some shortness of breath.

'Got that! How are you?' I insist, imagining the worst. I'm already jumping off the bed and trying to grab him, to understand what is wrong.

'John, stop it, I'm alright! I was grabbing on to the syringe. That's how he got away. He couldn't have it, I couldn't let it happen.'

'No', I agree with his out of breath logic. In a split second decision between me and the case solving, he chose to keep me safe, even if for that he had to let the man go. Wouldn't have expected anything else from my generous friend, but he must know this is a tough situation to be in, now.

'He'll try it again', I state, concerned. This hospital is no safe ground.

My friend hesitates for a second then makes a decision. Taking advantage of the fact that I'm already up, he pushes me along with him to the door. _We're leaving._

'Sherlock, what's the plan?' I ask my friend as I dare to stop for a breath of air. We're hiding behind the door, Sherlock is keeping an eye out on the hall, his thin face only partially lit by the corridor's halogen lights.

'Thank you, John', he says, seriously, without facing me.

I nod reflexively; _welcome._ 'For what?'

'I've been secretly wishing for a good case! You got me one', he answers in a tight whisper.

'So... I'm your case?'

'John, surely you haven't failed to notice someone has just made an attack on your life? You don't suppose I'd let anyone get away with it? This is the case I've been hoping for!' he exclaims, triumphantly. Then, on second thought: 'Not good?'

'No... it's fine.' _It's Sherlock._

I shiver before I can help myself. Even though I'm still partially concealed by the darkness in the room, Sherlock won't fail to notice. Immediately his expression morphs into something entirely different. Triumph transforms in to a deep concern.

'Come on, John', he tells me, forcing a light smile to his face. 'You've scared me long enough already.'

I nod, knowing he's right. It doesn't help that I'm leaning towards a side and not on purpose. 'We need to get out of here – with one little detour', I lead on.

Sherlock's gaze is intent on me, as if allowing me to take over in these first minutes. There is something predatory in his expression, holding back, impatiently waiting to burst out. Some sort of feral protection act that both bothers and thrills me to the core. 'What do you need, John? For your plan?'

'Just a short field trip to the pharmacy. I need to stock up my doctor-ish super-powers', I smirk defiantly. He breathes in, leaning back instinctively. Still allowing me to have first dibs in this clandestine break out.

I signal for him to follow me. Crouching a little by habit of all the covert operations done abroad, I take a sudden detour and make a run for the small pharmacy, Sherlock in my wake. The detective refuses to take part in my theatre of covert operations guarding the back flank with a superior look and carefully measured glances all around. _I couldn't tell which of us looks more suspicious right now._

The small room is dominated by shelving units top to bottom. Immediately I ransack the rolls of bandages and disinfectant, moving on to antibiotics and supplements. It's with heavy pockets that Sherlock will leave this hospital, carrying all this stuff that just may come in handy. Mid drift between bandages and adhesive, I catch an unfiltered expression in Sherlock's unguarded stunned gaze. _He looks way out of his depth._

_Still he won't back off._

_Best friend I could have asked for._

'Done there?' he hastens me.

'Almost.

'What... what are you doing, John?' he demands to know as he sees me take up a pen.

'Leaving a signed requisition sheet for these. I'm a doctor, remember?'

He rolls his eyes dramatically. Not for the first time, I'm not quite the burglar he was hoping for.

'They'll make the maths, don't worry! Let's go!'

As soon as I nod it's like I've released a force of nature. His demeanour is more controlling; it's his command now. He glances through a gap in the door only to realise that a couple of nurses have returned to their posts with teas. _We're stuck in a closet._

_Even Sherlock must know how bad this sounds._ I shake my head to dissipate the notion and potential social embarrassment.

'Sherlock, we need to get out of here', I press with the obvious. He just pretends to listen, as if sparing me from the angry retort.

'Now', he tells me slowly, deliberately, and I'm shocked to realise the nurses are gone and Sherlock is putting away his phone back into his pocket. Only then I recognise in the distance my own phone's ringtone. The one that it's against the rules to have in my room, and yet there's where I left it. The nurses must have gone there to seize it. Only Sherlock could have remembered something like this. Only trouble is that now they'll set off the alarm for the patient's disappearance.

'We need to get out, Sherlock', I insist.

'You need to be in a hospital', he refuses for the first time. _He's having second thoughts._

'Not if it's more dangerous in here than out. And besides _I don't need a doctor, I'm already one_, right?' I remind him of his words, I can read in his expression that he disagrees strongly with me about not needing a doctor or a hospital. But out of concern or respect for my medical skills, he actually gives in.

'We'll go out through the back.'

_**.**_

My time with Sherlock taught me not to depend on pyjamas but on comfortable clothes that can double up as an active day wear in case of an emergency. There was this time when a smoke curtain Sherlock was creating at the kitchen table went wrong and half of Baker Street quarter got evacuated from their homes in the middle of the night. Mycroft Holmes came to the rescue covering up the incident with rumours of a small fire (probably more of a covert threat there), rather than allowing the knowledge of his baby brother's insomnias to the world. On other occasions, clients came knocking on 221B's door in the middle of the night, the strangest one came in looking for help to find her missing goldfish. That one turned out to be one of Sherlock's favourite cases to this day, I believe.

This time, running from a hospital in the middle of the night I'm thankful for sports trousers and a plain white t-shirt. Not counting the fact that I'm barefoot I could almost pull this off with normality.

Or maybe not, seeing that I'm already shaking violently in the cold night air.

One fast glance at me and Sherlock is trying to force me to accept his wool coat for protection. It's warm, and heavy, and I feel like a child in adult's cloths.

It's in costume, therefore, that I watch Sherlock hail a cab out of the empty late night with the same ease as usual. As soon as he looked around there was a free cab coming in. It's the sort of luck that only Sherlock can consistently pull off. We get into the back seat and close the door. Then we look at each other, blankly. My house, his house, are not safe grounds as far as we know. We need some sort of hide out, preferably a good one.

'Where to?' the driver asks, dully.

'Scotland Yard', Sherlock settles for. I just stay focused on my friend's expression while the cab drives off in the night.

_He's trusting Greg this time._

_Now I'm sure this is bad._

'I'm sorry, Sherlock, I know this wasn't quite your plans.'

'Focus, John! You are my case now. Someone tried to get you when you couldn't defend yourself.'

_No sugar coating with Sherlock, is there?_ Yet, I sense it's more than a disconnection with social norms and patterns here. He's fully focused, heavily immerged in this new _case_. This is what Sherlock does. Solves cases and saves lives.

Yet I think having me as a client comes as a blunt surprise. The kind that jumps at you, and knocks you on the head. Hard.

'Who is after me, Sherlock?'

He shifts minutely in his place. 'I'm a genius, John, but this time I require some more time and a few more clues.'

'What do you mean?'

'Who'd want to kill you, John? What happened?'

_Beats me!_ My innocent reflex to his question just brings a worried frown to my friend's expression. I suppose it's only fair, knowing that solving a case with reason and rhyme is far easier than explaining the sloppy attack of a random serial killer.

Someone intended to kill me. I'm sure of that, as a physician. Molly's presence was crucial to set me straight, in time. Sherlock's foresight was crucial to prevent a second attempt. My visits kept me properly protected. Possibly this risky plan was devised some point after they've realised that Sherlock wasn't leaving my side, in a silent crucial support. It was a sloppy desperate resort because I was surrounded by friends.

_It's as if the whole universe has conspired to assure me I'm not as alone as I was once before._

_Kind of a sarcastic way to do it, though._

Sherlock's been waiting for my attention to focus back. Finally he blinks (as if surfacing for air after so long emerged in my thoughts) and restarts as if no time had elapsed: 'Someone is after you, John. We need to study your latest patients, people you may have pissed off without even realising. Or, in a more likely scenario, people _I_ pissed off. There the list grows considerably.'

He suspects someone tried to get to me in order to get to him. Wouldn't be a first and for the sake of rationality we need to explore it as a possibility.

I lay back against the cab's back seat, feeling drained. Sherlock keeps quiet, typing away in his phone in mysterious fast patterns. Silent invisible conversations as he keeps a look out for me, for us. Trusting him truly, I close my eyes for a brief moment that seems to merge in a timeless scale.

_**.**_

I wake up with a small jerk of the cab we've taken. Didn't even realise I had fallen asleep during the ride from the hospital. Much less was I aware of having leaned over to Sherlock on the back seat of the cab. I think I've been sleeping with my head resting on his shoulder for the last miles. Funny enough, my friend who avoids most social contact didn't push me off him. He stood quiet in the small contained space so I could have much needed rest.

_I may have been drooling at some point_, I realise as I identify a certain dampness in his jacket's shoulder.

Luckily he seems to have taken seclusion in his mind, pondering the case that has got us both here. Now I'm not even sure he knew what I've done in my sleepy state.

'Are we here yet, Sherlock?' I test, searching the landscape outside the windows.

He startles back to reality.

'Arriving in 3 minutes, ten seconds, John', he answers me factually, in a minimalistic fashion.

'Why Scotland Yard?' I try to make him talk.

'We were invited here.'

'We were?'

'They usually invite us over, when I give them the easy solution to one of the cases that kept them baffled the longest', he smirks knowingly.

'You solved a case?' I repeat.

'Nine.'

'Nine?' I don't follow.

'Nine cases in total.'

'What?!' _How did he even have the chance to do that?_

'You heard me: nine cases', he answers like nothing much.

'While I was in the hospital? How?'

'Multitasking.'

I smile, knowing I'll have to give in. Extracting information from Sherlock is being willingly complicated. It's part of his (well-deserved) genius act.

'And now?' I ask for the basics.

'We're on our way to Scotland Yard's press conference on the international serial killer I caught. Greg Lestrade insisted, when he came looking for me, to tell me I should be elsewhere.'

'Yeah... About that. I didn't quite tell Greg you have been—'

'Will you be at the press conference?' he cuts me off. Maybe he got upset; I'm not being helpful towards his isolated genius image.

'If you want me to.'

He hums non-concomitantly, in a way I've learnt to identify as a Yes, as the cab pulls over to a halt.

_**.**_


	60. Chapter 60

_A/N: Finally the last one. Don't know how some of these story scraps just insist on being so long. There's a lot of "just need to add this and that" involved. (Sorry!) -csf_

* * *

_**. the ending, from the last three .**_

Strangely, everyone at Greg's floor seems to have taken turns to converge to me, asking me how I'm doing._ My secret op was anything but secret._

Even Anderson volunteers to get me tea or coffee, for the first time ever. Hiding a smirk, I pass the question on to Sherlock by my side. He quietly nods cryptically at Anderson and that sets the forensic technician off in a flustered hurry.

In the back of my mind I notice he didn't ask Sherlock how he takes his tea, but I'm sure it'll be fine either way. It's not as if Sherlock expects Anderson to know he likes it sweet.

_At least I hope not. Anderson has taken fan stalker appreciation to the next level, last year._

Well, Sherlock deserves it, I guess.

Sally Donovan is coming up to us. She and Sherlock have a long history of animosity. Immediately I decide to do everything in my power to keep it under control.

'Sergeant', I start with a nod.

'John', she cuts straight through the formality, in her no-shit frankness. 'I heard you were in the hospital.'

'Oh, that!' I try to fake sudden remembrance. 'It was just routine. Hm... Thanks for the card, Sally.'

'I didn't send you one', she says, straight-forward, with a cat smile.

'Well, Scotland Yard's card', I rescue myself from the embarrassment lamely.

'I was going to get you one', she offers generously. _I'm sure I'm blushing now. Can't she drop it?_

'No, really, no need... Oh, there's Anderson with your tea, Sherlock', I direct my friend as soon as I see him open his mouth to say something (unpleasant). Sherlock glances at me with a measuring look, then actually accepts my peace request and parts himself.

_I would rather have followed him._

'Boss said you were here for the press conference', Sally tells me. I nod, that's it. She adds: 'I guess you being at the hospital didn't stop Sherlock from going around, chasing bad guys.'

_Actually, I know for a fact that he must have solved the cases in his mind, and with the occasional aid of his secret network, for he never left my side for long._ If it wasn't for my nightmares, his dedication might have gone unnoticed. _Not this time._

'Don't, Sally', I state warningly.

It's too late. She's fully engaged now. 'Did he bring you here for you to praise him?'

I tighten my jaw. 'Greg Lestrade insisted on him being here.'

She shrugs, unimpressed. 'First time he listens', Sally points out.

_Yeah, maybe he's going soft at last._ Before I can say anything she rolls her eyes to what she read in my expression and moves away. Fine by me. I locate Sherlock and Greg on the detective inspector's office and move to reunite with them.

I knock on the glass divider wall as I open the door. I can still eavesdrop on Greg tightly whispering to Sherlock: 'Why did you bring John along? The man needs rest, just take a look at him!'

They both look at me at the same time. No point in pretending I didn't hear that one. I give Greg my most army captain inspired look to set him straight. _I'm fine, Greg._ 'Not even my first filming since the op, right?'

He actually rolls his eyes at me. Grabbing his suit jacket, he sets off, signalling us to follow him.

Sherlock waits for me to go past first, in another unusual move. _It's like he wants to keep me sheltered between him and Greg._

The press room is a long flat auditorium-style space, very bright and hot. The long table is set to divide us from the crowd of media representatives, with a first line of cameras and a back row of aligned seats.

Instinctively I glance at Sherlock, with a smile. He deserves it, this glory, for all the good work he does. Most of it will forever go unnoticed. Some is bound by secrecy to start with. In whatever way I can give him the credit he deserves I'll do it. My blog, Greg's press conference, are just tiny ways of helping the universe balance itself out.

Cameras are ready to roll, people are getting ready. I'm a bit embarrassed that I'll be on national telly in a crumbled t-shirt, but there's little I can do about it. By my side, Sherlock is revising his notes in his mind, in a suit that looks as pristine as ever. _What else is new? The man would look put together even if caught in a desert sand storm, I'm sure._

I lean back on the chair and close my eyes for a second. All of this is extremely draining.

'John', I can hear Greg calling me. 'We have half-an-hour before these guys are ready. I can find you a spot for you to rest a bit.'

I hate myself as I answer: 'That would be great, yeah'. Worriedly, I glance at Sherlock, he's looking back at me with very honest light-green eyes. He nods, to support my decision. 'Call me, before it starts', I plead, sounding a bit desperate. He seems to sense my discomfort in taking time for myself because he vows to do so in a quiet honest nod.

Greg leads me through the Yard's ground with a permanent frown. We don't even get very far.

There's a quiet peaceful room at the end of Scotland Yard, that Greg's division usually uses for sensitive interviews with fragile witnesses. It's a nice small space with a comfortable two seats sofa. _Never felt so comfortable as today._ I'm slumped, half-propped against a side by Greg's intervention. There's no hiding from Greg that I'm at my exhaustion's limit.

Greg hands me over a water bottle and takes a seat unceremoniously at the coffee table, facing me, as he lets on:

'Sherlock phoned me. He had solved overnight nine of the ten stalled cases I had left him.'

I nod reverentially. 'Yeah, it's extraordinary.'

'It's extraordinary even for Sherlock's standards.'

'Hm?'

'This time is different for him, innit?'

I face Greg with honest confusion. 'What do you mean?'

'You are the case, John.'

I still don't follow. 'I am. He spared me the sitting-down-on-the-chair-and-telling-my-story part.'

'And why would he do that?' Greg leads on.

'I imagine it's against every fibre of his being to see someone almost getting killed within five feet from him.'

'Under his watch, you mean.' Again, I feel he's leading me on, but I suppose it's true.

'Guess so... He added my case to the list he's working on. Quite frankly, I don't think his mind ever slows down. He's always on one case or another. Probably even in his sleep.'

Greg shifts position in the uncomfortable coffee table.

'I went to Baker Street, looking for him. Mrs Hudson told me he hasn't been around.'

'Hm.'

'His phone charger wasn't there. So he planned to be out for a good while.'

'Good detective work.'

'I'm a detective too, not just Sherlock.' Greg's tone of voice is colder now. He's onto something. I think he knows where Sherlock has been hiding. I don't know if Sherlock is okay with me confirming it, since he's been working so hard to hide his _care_.

_High functioning sociopath he's not._

'I was worried', Greg continues out of the blue, 'about Sherlock. After what happened, and without you there to help him along, I was afraid he'd do something something stupid.'

_Oh._

But why? 'He's had no big stresser.'

Greg tilts his head to the side, incredulous. 'Really? Wanna think that through?'

'My op?' I don't get it. 'It was just routine—'

'What have his violin, his phone, Baker Street's clutter and you in common? Hell, even his coat, the man wears the same coat forever...'

'I don't—'

You've become an important part of his life, John. Facing the reality that he could have lost you beyond his control must have been nearly maddening for Sherlock. He's not very good with emotions and... real life.'

_He's very good at all that, in his own way, Greg._

I didn't need to say it out loud. He read my defence of Sherlock's ways in my expression and immediately he tries to settle, appeasing me: 'I mean this has been a tough time on Sherlock too, John.'

I nod. I always knew that. _I saw it in the little signs, even if I couldn't believe I make such a difference._ I'm his friend, yes, but Sherlock had always been distant with everyone, even the people he cares about. _It's only visible in the small details._

'He's not likely to do something rash, Greg.'

The detective inspector purses his lips. 'It's never been rash with Sherlock.' I shiver. I can't ignore this information. Greg has known Sherlock for longer years than me.

In essence, Greg is making me focus on Sherlock. He knows this routine operation on my shoulder brought back dark times for me. Sherlock's presence and focus have kept me afloat. I shouldn't let it all blind me. It's time to give back some. It's my mission to focus away from the pain and the exhaustion, and support Sherlock in any way I can.

Nodding briefly to cement on my friend the notion that I understood, I finally see Greg getting up and leaving the small interview room. I close my eyes to gather my strengths for the next couple of hours.

_**.**_

The press conference went well, somewhere between Sherlock's innuendos that Scotland Yard is less than proficient and Greg's less than hidden jibes that Sherlock and me are lone adventurers that hardly ever follow the rules to get the end result.

_All in a day's work, really._

As the crowd of reporters are let loose to come question us both, I immediately try to set the perimeter around Sherlock. Soothing, I go around the table, thanking them for showing up, setting the rules to questioning Sherlock, praising the Yard's good work. _The usual drill._

It takes me by surprise, therefore, when, in an energetic move, Sherlock acrobatically jumps over the conference table and grabs hold of one of the nearing reporters. Not even half-stunned, the man immediately puts up a fight. Greg and I react at the same time, running towards the two of them.

Greg gets there first, being temporarily healthier than me. As I'm reaching them I can still see Sherlock and the reporter desperately fighting for control of some hidden object in the stranger's hand.

With a gut twist I recognise the man. He's the fake nurse from the hospital, with a second syringe filled with some sort of poison or even the severe allergen substance I'm so reactive to. I shiver. He was again aiming at me. He was going to stab me under cover of the crowd.

_Not under Sherlock's watch, clearly._

As Greg joins the physical altercation, the echoing sound of phones beeping away continues from the vicinity. I don't make much sense of it till the first officers start coming into the conference room, guns already drawn out. More and more officers, filling the room to the brink, from its edges.

At this point, Sherlock shoves me back hastily, over my healthy shoulder. He and Greg are still desperately fighting for control of the dangerous sharp weapon in the stubborn criminal's hand.

'Be careful, Sherlock, that's likely to be—'

Before I can finish my warning a sudden brisk move flairs and the two of them are curling up together. _The poisonous substance!_ I can't tell who is holding the other as they both swoop to the floor.

The angry flashes of cameras intensify. Greg yells over the shoulder for the reporters to turn off the cameras. I finally reach Sherlock and desperately try to locate a stabbed syringe at the same time I'm trying to measure his pulse.

A strong hand takes hold of my own wrist. Icy shiny eyes with a fiery light are on me as my friend's expression betrays a small victory smile. He's already telling me something. I struggle to make his words meaningful. I reconstruct what he's been saying: 'Not me, John, not me. Him.' I sigh in relief. He adds: 'He got a taste of his own medicine.'

I fight back a silly giggle, but I can't take hold of my smile. Finally evening my breath, I turn to find my newest patient collapsed on the floor.

_Time to be John Watson._

'Scalpel, Sherlock', I command, professional and restrained. I know I handed him one for safe keep at the hospital's small stock pharmacy.

Sherlock freezes reflexively. 'He tried to kill you, John', he protests at last, as he is already reaching for his coat in a nearby chair and starts emptying the pockets for my doctor's kit.

'I saw that.'

'You messed with the wrong person', my friend declares coldly. I know he means me. As if stating to the world through the media coverage that I'm off-limits. i hope the reporters don't pick up on it. i hope they think he means himself.

_Scotland Yard knows. I don't know whether I'm more thankful or mortified._

I catch a glimpse of Greg, disguising a happy smile. _I guess that settles that._

Greg Lestrade offers us some modicum of privacy as he sets off to get the reporters straight. With some luck he'll manage to hold the story off the news. At the same time, Sally is swooping down to help keep the criminal under control. She doesn't question my work, when I cut the shirt's fabric to access the puncture wound (right in the shoulder) or when I assess the man's vitals.

Lucky for him, he's ridding it out way more easily than it's have affected me. It's clear he doesn't share the severe allergic reaction to the compound he smuggled in.

'Who are you?' Sherlock growls by my side, down to the criminal. 'Why did you do it?'

He keeps stubbornly silent. From behind us I sense Greg patting the gun on his shoulder strap as a silent threat. Sally misses it altogether. The criminal, however, gets it.

'Chandler. As in "the Chandler brothers".' He's proud of it, too.

'How's your brother?' Sherlock taunts. The name is starting to ring a bell to me.

With tiny jerks of fight every few seconds, Chandler recounts angrily, within Sally's grip: 'Sherlock Holmes and John Watson caught my brother and got him ten years in jail. They took my baby brother out of my life! I wanted to make Holmes feel my loss. I wanted him to know what he's done to me!'

Greg uttered: 'Your brother brought it on himself, Chandler. He was definitely guilty of a hijack gone wrong.'

'Yeah, well, you'd never have proofs of it if it wasn't for Holmes. My brother is smart, he knew how to cover his tracks!'

I add, confused: 'You tried to kill me to get even with Sherlock Holmes. That decision made you a killer, Chandler.'

He shrugs, ignoring all moral implications. 'I'm just sorry I didn't make it. I was going to kill you, and then him.'

'That revenge wouldn't set your brother free', Greg points out.

'No, but _they_ would know what it's like for me', he states out coldly.

Before I know it, there's a soft hand over my healthy shoulder. I startle back, with the realisation that I had closed my eyes, shaking my head to no one in particular.

_Such a waste, all of this._

I look over at my right. Sherlock asks softly: 'Baker Street?' It's as if _Baker Street_ is some sort of safe word code to get us out of there as soon as possible. I nod.

With Sherlock ASAP is at once.

He twirls away in burst of energy and charisma, abandoning the criminal to Scotland Yard. With a short goodbye nod to Greg, I follow my friend at once. Business as usual.

_**.**_

My armchair in 221B never felt as comfortable as now. With the fireplace lit, I let the gentle warmth of the homely location sooth me.

Something comes to mind and I start over to Sherlock, who is pretending to be very busy in his armchair, catching up on his emails of the past couple of days: 'You knew, Sherlock. You set it up as a trap. Sally was right in one thing.' He derogatorily sighs as he hears the Sergeant's name. 'This was the first time you listened to Greg's invites to press conferences. At least without my intervention. You did that in order to lure the killer to the Yard.'

Sherlock brushes away some imaginary dirt off his cuff, distractedly. 'Maybe.'

'And the phones beeped before the Yarders came into the room', I continue.

'What?'

'It's have taken a few more minutes before the alarm had reached them. But you, Sherlock – you texted them for backup.'

'Did I?' he still plays vague. He won't deny it, though.

'The only thing I don't understand—'

'Just _one_ thing?' he stings me. I ignore that.

'I can't imagine what you told them in that text to make them come, guns in hand. That was incredible leadership and authority.'

Sherlock smirks and gets up from his armchair. It can't be a coincidence that he's just left his phone unattended behind. I lean forward and take it on my hand. Looking over the shoulder I see Sherlock devoting all his attention to his violin. I make a decision and touch the screen.

_Messages_ – _Sent_ – _"John Watson. Press conference. Come at once."_

I stare at the lit screen with much more confusion than I had to start with. Does that mean that they all came in, summoned to my rescue? They obeyed Sherlock – a civilian by all means – in his directives? Why would trained officers do that? There was nothing in this written message indicating that Greg was on board with the orders, or that it was Greg who was in trouble and in need of their help. Had they really come in... _for me?_

Sherlock just told them to cover for me. They all agreed.

That settles the mystery of how Scotland Yard found out about my procedure to begin with. Sherlock can't pin that one on Mike Stanford.

Behind me, slowly and soothing, the soft tones of Sherlock's violin comfort me, and I finally abandon his phone and get back to my armchair. I allow myself to lean back, close my eyes, and I let my mind drift away along with the melody.

_**.**_


	61. Chapter 61

_A/N: I can't turn them all into stories, you know..._

_As always, still not: British, a writer, or anything other than myself. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

London is home to all sorts of artists. From the posh galleries exhibitions to the ASBO awarding urban outdoors, everything seems to be a bubbling medium for their creativity.

I've blundered across the city unaware of these artistic expressions for the last hour, looking for a very particular product of this city: the great consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

He asked me to meet him at Regents Park. Just that. No reason why, no specific meeting point, little to go on. _Sometimes he seems to forget I'm not a detective myself._

_To be honest, he never treated me like I wasn't one, from the start._

_A partner with "slightly" less capabilities than the genius himself._

I sigh, slowing down at last. I've been walking up and down this park, worried that my friend could be in danger, and I'm failing to find him. All I see are dozens of strangers, trees, shrubs and multiple paths. There's also a musician at a corner, playing for money, and further away a homemade prophet is trying to warn passersby of the end of the world or something like that.

Only this music... It sounds oddly familiar.

I turn abruptly.

'Sherlock?' I stare, shocked, at the scruffy looking man holding a violin. He winks, cheekily, without ever halting his melody, with the devotion of a true musician.

_He's okay, then. _He's been amusing himself seeing me circle the park grounds, as he stands there, in some rudimentary disguise, seeing me crisscross nature. I just sigh.

For a second the music there feels wrong. That the rich melodies – so expressive of the private natured man playing them – are at display to London's crowds. I could just blink for a second, and in that blink I'd feel that I was back at 221B, sharing this special wordless conversation with Sherlock. I realise this is me being jealous. This music is a gift to the world. In a way, it's a gift that the great detective hasn't chosen to give himself to the world in this way. _He could fill concert halls with just his talent._

Someone comes by my side and throws a couple of coins to the open violin case on the floor, bringing me back to reality at collision speed. Somehow I can't really surpass my original stupor. It still feels odd. Sherlock playing has always been a special private moment he's only shared with his closest friends at 221B. Like that Christmas party two years ago. That the shy musician is now squandering it away for loose change at a park... Jealously; I might wish it didn't have the same magic, but the beautiful tones of a warm melody are floating around just like in Baker Street.

Sometimes I'd hear him play well into the night. It felt like a warm ray of sunshine in the cold night when I woke up the loneliest. It helped me recover hope again, it guided me home. I don't think Sherlock ever knew how thankful I am for the times his music rescued me.

_I wouldn't know how to tell him._

Instinctively I'm missing the crackling of burning logs in the fireplace, the warm smell of brewing tea, the comfort of a rundown chair in 221B.

I finally look more attentively at my transformed friend and let go of a long breath, lowering my shoulders with a frown. 'Sherlock', I start, over his soliloquy, 'is that my best jacket you're wearing?'

I've realised suddenly that the scruffy clothes he's wearing are actually mine. They don't look so scruffy on me, I'm sure. It's just that I'm comparing them to Sherlock's impeccably tailored suit jackets. Isn't it?

It doesn't help that in my friend the sleeves are too short. And so are the ones of _my_ jumper, underneath. I quirk a brow and tilt my head, waiting for his best attempt at an explanation.

_Don't mess with my jumpers, Sherlock. Not for science, and not for art either._

Sherlock stops his music instantly, as he frowns with his whole face to shush me before I speak. He rapidly glances around us and deeming it safe, he snaps himself: 'Well, I couldn't wear my own suit for this undercover work, now could I? I'm trying to blend in! You clothes were in an overnight bag in Baker Street and they were quite _appropriate_. And strangely comfortable', he smirks, half-teasing me, half-sincere.

_Of course they are comfortable!_

'Not your size, Sherlock.'

He pretends to ignore my comment, again looking around us to make sure no one is listening in.

'I'm starting to understand the qualities of this hideous jumper, John.'

_You're in so much trouble, now._

He reads my expression easily. '_Just drop it, John._ You'll have it back in no time. I won't be taking up your fashion sense anytime soon.'

'Careful, I might not tip you.'

He smirks confidently. In the middle of a busy park, it feels like an uncomfortable location for our hushed private conversation. It might have been, if not for Sherlock's feline glances around us. Is something about to happen? Am I hurting my friend's cover or blocking someone else's view of Sherlock while he studies the crowd?

I clear my throat and try to glance backwards as innocently as possible, over my shoulder. Sherlock is fast to notice my thoughts. 'It's okay, John. It's a trial for a disguise I need in a case.'

'A case?' I repeat, to make him talk.

He rolls his eyes, repeating himself. 'I told you I'm undercover, remember?'

He really must be. His curly hair tucked under a cap and a pair of thin rimmed glasses deterring attention from his features. Ultimately, it had been the cap's shadow and the violin's elegant lines that got my attention in passing. A good actor doesn't alter his whole appearance, it's the minute details that make up a new identity, and that need to ring genuine. Sherlock has learnt that over the years. He started out goofy and out of place, only to be true master, years on.

_He could always fool me, though._

'I take it this is some sort of stake out for Greg, or you'll have a secret meeting with a violins counterfeit gang, or you're just planning to write a blog entry on the effects of classical music on the rush hour crowds of London?'

He looks blank all of a sudden. Pondering my guesses or wondering if he should be multitasking right now.

'John', he perks up all of a sudden. 'I've been playing this corner for the last three hours. It's been an interesting study on social dynamics within big agglomerations of unrelated people, I've identified three separate pickpocket offenders – one of which gave up before he started, it really wasn't that school kid's vocation – and I've come to the conclusion that I've collected more magnetic pennies than non-magnetic ones.' I frown. _Is he serious?_ Did he sort them out by date of manufacturing or with a proper magnet? 'John', he calls me intensely, 'I've studied your use of jumpers and brownish too-big-for-you jackets, I've estimated the fitness level of random passersby, and I analysed which classical pieces I played were more profitable – hence I played the same Mozart piece four times...'

I nod. 'Need me to lend you a fiver?' I gather.

He rolls his eyes dramatically. 'Told you this is for a case, John.'

I smile softly. 'Has it been that boring?' I realise. His face relaxes. What he didn't want to say out loud I did for him at last.

'Yes, yes, yes!' he repeats himself with relief. 'I don't know why, it's different when you or Mrs Hudson are there!'

I would have thought Sherlock would feast on all the admiring glances and small praises received from the passersby, and that would be enough to keep him going.

Maybe it's shyness; and he'd rather be playing to his inner circle of friends. He never got _bored _with us, having played just as long on occasion.

'Is your work done, here?' I notice he has stopped playing since I arrived. And that he texted me here.

'Yes', he states simply, as he lowers himself to the ground. He empties the violin case of its metallic contents, gently runs his fingertips over the velvet inside lining as if clearing away the dust, and finally he respectfully lowers the violin and bow back to its wooden sarcophagus.

'So, when you summoned me here, you were testing your disguise?' I point at my jacket.

'Yeah, of course!' he answers as if it was obvious.

'Even if I know you better than any of these people.' I point over my shoulder to the passersby.

'You still took _forever_ to find me, John!' he rolls his eyes. I smirk. 'Remind me not to get kidnapped and have you looking around for me.'

'Deal...' I suppress a giggle. 'You said this was a trial run, Sherlock. When is the real undercover work going to happen?'

'Tomorrow. The Grand Theatre, with London philharmonic orchestra. I suspect the bassoonist is holding old war secrets for sale. Wanna come, John? I can get you a front row seat.'

'Hearing you play for a couple of hours?' I nod. 'Wouldn't miss it for the world. And tomorrow you can wear your own suit, thank you very much.'

He fakes annoyance. 'Your jumper is safe and unharmed, John. I'm not even holding it up for ransom.'

I open my eyes wide. 'You wouldn't dare', I growl.

He just breaks himself in half, giggling like a mad man, as he turns away. He must be thinking something along the lines of £1 ransom in non-magnetic pennies, or a musical password extracted from a middle passage of that successful Mozart piece, or something equally twisted...

Sherlock Holmes really knows how to get on my nerves...

_I want my jumper back, Sherlock! You keep forgetting: I had bad days!_

_**.**_


	62. Chapter 62

_A/N: Some stories shoot out of the pen, others fly out of the window. This one did the latter. Literally. (Why do weird things only happen to me?)_

_Anyway, remember when I stated that I couldn't turn it all into stories? I like a good challenge, so this is sort of a continuation from the last posting, one I've been chewing on all week long. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

_Sherlock's gone._

I'm the only one who believes Sherlock got kidnapped. Even Greg thinks I'm overreacting. Or, in the least, that big brother Mycroft has been up to something. I'm the only one who's worried, the only one carrying this burdening knowledge and worry.

They think he's gone shy on me.

An undercover work has brought Sherlock to play his violin with the best of London's philharmonic orchestra. He did brilliantly, if I can say it myself. I've always believed he's one of the best. His melodies convey so much more emotion and depth than he ever allows himself to demonstrate publicly to the outside world. Sherlock believes cold reasoning is the only correct transport for his brilliant mind and puzzle-solving. Emotion is nothing but a distortion lenses that affects the beautifully aligned process of reason. Still, he is human, and when at Baker Street, by the end of a long evening, he allows his cold mask to fall and reveals the melodies in his heart and soul, he always leaves his closest friend in awe.

This assignment must have been most uncomfortable for him, forcing him to expose bare his heart and soul to an opera house full of strangers. I've suspected that was why he insisted on my presence there; first row, guest tickets. For the most of his performance he acted like he couldn't care where he was at the time. But every once in a while a string of notes would quaver under the strain – still perfectly pitched and timed, just faltering ever so slightly in tension, making them the most expressive – and he'd glance my way and resume full composure. I fancied he was imagining himself in safe ground, at Baker Street. I was watching over him as admiringly as ever from this other tapestry seat, this one smaller and more uncomfortable.

The rest of the musicians in the orchestra did okay too, I suppose.

Sherlock's name was not disclosed to the public and he took the precaution of a fake pair of rimmed glasses in a rudimentary (yet effective) disguise supported by a simple well-crafted lie (last minute replacement, after the regular violinist fell ill). A huge amount of effort went into this plan, fuelled by the suspicion that the bassoonist was an amateur spy wanting to sell old war time secrets to a contact in the audience. So, as he was keeping an eye on the greedy musician while playing the violin, I was locating potential buyers among the crowd of music lovers. Not an easy task at all, due to my positioning in the audience and the incredible distraction. It was an amazing concert, not in the least with Sherlock as one of the key players. Magic floated in the air, the likes of which I hadn't experienced in a long time. A man of war and action like myself should, in all reason, be the least qualified to evaluate a concert, I'm aware of that. I'm expected to blunder through it, heavy and loud. That this music could soften a hardened soldier like me is in itself a compliment, I believe.

Never failed to sooth me before.

Sherlock seems to be convinced I've got a sensitive core when it comes to this sort of things. I'm quite sure that if I ever had one it got shattered at a foreign land's war. Then again, he might have just invited me to the concert because he needed a man of action set alongside him.

_That's where I failed him._

As the concert ended under thunderous applause, Sherlock hasted to be one of the first performers off the stage. Whichever the plan he was going with, he didn't give me a clue. Reflexively, I tried to follow him and his mysterious reasoning only to get blocked by a thick mass of people and applause.

Sherlock vanished out of my sight in no time.

That was the last I saw of him.

Eventually I managed to head backstage. A crowd of coordinated chaos enveloped the artists and instruments gathering in that small area. Lost little music chords were set free here and there, dying out immediately among the loud conversations. I've desperately searched for Sherlock and the spy but found none. In the end I came across Sherlock's cherry-brown violin inside its open case, with a small scribbled note in between the strings. I could read, in my friend's characteristic handwriting:

«please take me home safely, John».

I smiled briefly at the sincere request's anthropomorphic nature. That violin is one of Sherlock's most prized possessions. I closed the lid over the violin, bow and note, and took it with me.

I was still carrying it in my hand when I came out of the theatre by the back door, directly into the alley's bins and dirt, away from London's bigger and busier streets. A black heavy car was driving away, turning the curve. Too late to check the license plate.

I've since become convinced it was how they got Sherlock out of the building. I should have paid more attention, been slightly faster, smarter – anything.

A black limousine type of car doesn't belong in the back alley of one of London's biggest theatres.

_I've let Sherlock slip off my fingers._

_**.**_

Alone on a dingy badly lit alley I snatch my silenced phone – _no contact from Sherlock _– and dial DI Lestrade's number. He's Sherlock's friend too, he'll help.

'Hello', I hear Greg's sleepy voice. He must have gone home after a long shift then. I might have just woke him up.

'Greg! Sherlock's gone', I tell him in a shakier voice than I'd have liked. It comes across tense, scared even. There's a couple of seconds of silenced delay, then my friend replies:

'It's okay, John.' There's a certain sadness in his voice. What–?

'We were on a case. Can't explain it to you because he didn't really explain it to me. Then he disappeared, out of the blue. He left me his violin and no explanation whatsoever. He must have been kidnapped, he can be in danger, Greg.'

'John... He'll come back one day.'

_Greg won't believe me._ I realise he thinks our mad friend went on a case solving dash without me.

'And why would he just disappear like that?' I ask tensely, an inch away from losing my patience altogether.

'He's been solving cases without you for a long time, John... Honestly, you're seeing things no one else sees. You've got a message from him, you said.'

I shake my head stubbornly. 'That was about the violin. This happened later.' I know that for sure.

'What happened?'

'I don't know. I told you, Sherlock got kidnapped, Greg.'

'Again with a secret enemy that kidnapped Sherlock? I wouldn't be too worried, John. No secret enemy can put up with Sherlock for long, he'll return Sherlock to us in no time.'

_He's not even taking me seriously._

Fine, I'll do it without Greg or Scotland Yard's support. I'll do whatever it takes.

I hang up the call angrily.

_**.**_

You can't do this to me, Sherlock. You just can't.

Just vanish out of my life again, with no proper justification, no honesty.

And maybe I'm angry, right now. Because I don't know for sure you had a good reason. If you're in trouble, and in need of my help. Or if I'm as good as an afterthought that didn't quite materialise. Like all those times you could have called me from Europe to set the record straight but always left that chore to the next day.

I know it sounds bad, even in my head. I'm functioning like a ditched lover. The thing is... Sherlock saved my life. Often. That's a profound bond that is borderline unbreakable.

And I know it works both ways. I've had enough evidence of that.

But, this time... I may be naïve, but I need to believe he didn't pull the same trick on me twice. I need to believe – I feel it instinctively – that he wouldn't do it again to me.

Leave me out of the picture like that.

Which leaves only one possibility. A scary one. The one I need to focus on.

_Sherlock got kidnapped._

Well...

Someone needs to rescue him. Good thing I don't have any better plans tonight.

_**.**_

I walk into a cold dark 221B with a gelid feeling at the pit of my stomach. _I want to go out there and risk my life, save Sherlock, come back and light the fireplace. _What hinders me is that the best I have to offer is not enough right now. I don't know where to go or how to find Sherlock.

_It's sort of sarcastic that I needed Sherlock to find Sherlock, right now._

I take care to place Sherlock's violin gently in his armchair, as if patiently waiting for its owner's return. _So am I._

I look around in search of inspiration, a clue on what to do next.

Guess it was my turn to raid Sherlock's laptop. All things considered, I have a good reason (suspecting he's been kidnapped), previous background (he's been using my laptop for his convenience since we've met) and enough decency not to abuse his privacy (as he undoubtedly would).

_Still feels weird._

With all the secret high-profile cases that went through my great detective friend's hands, I assumed he would have gone to great lengths to keep his laptop password protected.

_I was wrong. _I keep forgetting that he solves his cases on that big head – mind palace – of his. The laptop is little more than the recipient for crime-scene photos, scanned documents and charted spectrometer analysis. Everything else he does, he won't rely on a computer for it. He hardly even needs me – blogger – for what I can tell.

Doesn't explain the number of times he's taken my laptop for his personal use, though.

There's one folder named "Baker Street". I find myself drawn to it. Maybe Mrs Hudson's rent receipts?

I find 221B's architectural blueprints and other odd data. My curiosity flares up even more with a folder named simply "John".

Why am I on his computer?

Maybe it's my receipts from Mrs Hudson's rent.

All I know is that I can't afford to go through this right now. Even MIA Sherlock is entitled to his privacy. Breaching it behind his back is hardly going to help me solve the mystery of his disappearance.

I get up from the chair at once, only to halt briskly a second later.

Hang in there... _What if this is meant for me to read in the event of his disappearance?_ This is like an intrusive thought that permeates deeply in my conscience, piercing right through my moral sense, feeding of my worry for my friend.

Am I really about to break Sherlock's privacy in order to best track him down?

I have no doubt he'd have done the same for me. _With much less of a quavering will._

Hell, the electronic folder has my damned name on it...

To my surprise, there's only one text document in it. I open the document with a deep feeling of guilt. _What I'm doing is to help you, Sherlock._

I skim over the first few written lines and immediately gather this is about the case at hand. One of the cases, at least. Sherlock went to play violin tonight to stop old war secrets from changing hands. He already knew who wanted to buy them. This is unsupported evidence about the buyers, the same people who now have my friend. This was Sherlock's knowledge on them.

I suppose he labelled the folder "John" to throw people off-scent. Least of all, he didn't expect to get himself kidnapped and have me alone searching for him.

If he had the choice, he would have gone for a more competent team. I wouldn't blame him for that.

_**.**_

You can't do this to me, Sherlock. I'm not a detective. I can't solve this. _I need to solve this._

I tried to understand your process, all these years. I tried to study the way you work, I was fascinated by it. I've come to the conclusion that you are brilliant.

_I'm not._

Now I needed to be a genius, and I just don't fit the role.

What am I to do?

_**.**_

I seem to be spending a considerable amount of time in dark alleys tonight. As I step outside, behind Baker Street, I immediately trace the closest CCTV camera. I take my phone and dial from memory a long number, a satellite connection, a direct link to the illustrious Mycroft Holmes.

He's not answering.

_Oh, no, this is not nearly enough._ I find a big bin on wheels, push it over a couple of metres, and climb on top of its closed lid with flexibility. I'm now two feet away from the camera. _Try and ignore me now, Mycroft!_

I dial the unresponsive number again, stubbornly.

_You'll want to pick up, Mycroft._

_Any day now?_

I wonder if Mycroft is in on this kidnap. He actually has a great track record where it comes to kidnappings, but I can't imagine Sherlock going along with that. And he wouldn't need to leave his violin in my care. Mycroft's making himself scarce at the moment but something – probably the fact that this is about his baby brother – just doesn't add up.

'Yes, John?'

Finally the answer comes through the phone, in a weary voice. 'Maybe not so dramatic next time?'

I smirk angrily. That means the bastard can see me in his spy camera.

'Sherlock's gone. He was kidnapped. You need to put your people on it at once, Mycroft. Sherlock was last seen at a London's stage with the philharmonic orchestra, then he completely vanished at the end of it. You'll need agents interviewing every single musician and staff for witness testimonies. While you're at it, cross-reference sold tickets with credit card statements, trace the audience members and question every single one of them as well. There was also a black limousine exiting the scene by the south entrance alley, you can hack into its GPS signal and see where it leads you. How many men can you summon at a short notice?'

'John.' His tone is quiet, patronising, not taking me seriously at all. 'This is Sherlock. If he left without you, he had his reasons.'

'Yeah, he got kidnapped', I answer drily.

'I've traced the GPS tracking device in his expensive violin and found it at Baker Street.'

'Yeah, I put it there.'

'So, my "kidnapped" brother had the time to hand over his violin? I'm afraid kidnappers don't work like that, John.'

'What else can you trace? Can you find Sherlock?' I ask impatiently.

'Not tonight', he replies cryptically. There may be other usual objects with tracing signals, I gather. Not this time, as Sherlock went _undercover_, leaving behind his pet objects.

'He wouldn't leave without me, Mycroft.'

'Wouldn't he?' his big brother depreciates. 'You're not exactly up to our intellectual standards. If my brother chooses to keep something secret I wouldn't be too surprised, nor would you. Trust me, it gets tiresome having to explain everything to ordinary people.'

I take the blow and open my arms wide in surrender as I yell back at the camera: 'I don't care if I'm as thick as brick, Mycroft! I don't care if Sherlock is ashamed of me as his sidekick because of it and he doesn't tell me the whole story because he doesn't believe I can get it! If there's one thing I know I can do is to help Sherlock! Will you help me or are you wasting my time?'

Silence follows my yells into the night until I realise I won't hear an answer through the one-way security camera feed. 'Oh.' I take my phone up to my ear, that I had neglected, and hear Mycroft pondered voice again:

'You need to consider that Sherlock may want to handle this case on his own, John. I'll keep an eye out for the usual distress signals, and if any word comes through from my brother I'll have the MI5 on it faster than you can state your name and ranking in the army. I'll also concede in keeping you in the loop, John. I suggest you go and rest now. You look... emotional.'

I give him one last sincere dirty look.

'Go to hell, Mycroft.'

I cut the call, jump to the ground and walk away without looking back.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_

* * *

_2nd A/N: I'm taking a leap of faith on this one, not having devised it completely yet. Should be one more. -csf_


	63. Chapter 63

_A/N: Actually, there's another after this one. I'm not trying to annoy anyone, it just flowed like this. Thank you for the patience.  
As always, still not British, a writer, or a musician. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

I must be one clingy sidekick, for I really wish Sherlock would be here right now. It's a heavy load to carry, being the only one believing the great detective – and my best friend – was kidnapped and I need to get him back.

Greg Lestrade and the Scotland Yard believe that I'm being paranoid and Sherlock has just pulled another private disappearing act like Reinchenbach. Mycroft assured me all was under control and that Sherlock will have given me all the information he felt pertinent for me to have. That is to say, big brother believes Sherlock to have it all under control whilst on a solo act because – let's face it – it's not as if the great genius needs a regular everyday sidekick anyway.

_Well, sometimes he does._

_I'll always be around for those times._

That's what got me, all alone, looking for my friend.

Paranoid, needy, neglected; I'll carry all those labels if need be. All I care about is doing my job. And right now my job is to get Sherlock back.

_I'm sorry I haven't managed to get backup on board this mission, Sherlock._ I did my best. In the end, it'd be a waste of precious time to be more insistent.

_**.**_

I came back to Baker Street. Not because it was part of a dastardly master plan. In fact, I didn't have a real inkling on what to do next. Centrepiece on a fast crumbling world, maybe I just seek comfort in these familiar surroundings.

Sherlock's chair was here, by the dead fireplace. I found myself acting mechanically, as I approached it, and took hold of the warm-coloured violin in my hands and sat tiredly in the leather chair.

_Well, it's comfortable. Good view of the whole room plus the kitchen and the stairs._ First time ever I've sat on Sherlock's chair. He's been in mine lots of times. So have clients and his annoying brother. But I've never been in Sherlock's seat before.

_It's too big for me._ That's where the short inches' difference between the two of us really stand out. It just makes me feel like I'm trying to be someone else I'm not. Namely Sherlock. I need to channel my crazy friend's method. I need to learn how to do it all in no time, all I've never managed to grasp before.

_I've got to find you, rescue you, bring you home and hand over your precious violin and chair._

I lean back for a second in tiredness. What a mess. How could I ever let this happen under my watch?

No point in lamenting my (lack of) luck. There's only one thing to do right now and that is to solve the case. To set the wrongs right. To get Sherlock back.

_**.**_

"_Please take me home safely, John."_

_I'm trying here, Sherlock._

Footsteps are coming up the stairs to 221B and I suddenly realise I've been stroking the violin strings absent-mindedly. I must be an odd sight for Mrs Hudson, that seems surprised to find me in Sherlock's chair with his violin.

'Oh, hello, love!' she calls out sweetly. 'Thought you were Sherlock. He promised he'd return my laptop in a jiffy when he borrowed it.' She shakes her head as an opinion on our crazy overgrown child genius' habits. 'Mrs Turner from next door posted some wedding pictures of her daughter. Mrs Turner tells me they spent a fortune. But not on credit cards, no. She doesn't need to. The bride, I mean. She married rich, Mrs Turner says.'

'Sorry', I perk up, 'Sherlock borrowed your laptop, Mrs H?' I smirk, in complicity. I should have known it doesn't only happen to me.

'Well, he didn't borrow like normal people do, you can imagine, John, but I don't mind. And it wasn't a jiffy ago, but I don't suppose that's a surprise either, John... John, what is it...?'

I fake a tight smile. 'Nothing.'

_I'm deflecting._ I can't bring myself to tell Mrs Hudson that Sherlock is probably in deep danger and I'm standing here, doing nothing. Feeling guilty and useless.

Coming here was a mistake. I—

'Mrs Hudson, may I borrow your laptop', I state solemnly, hitched breath.

'Of course, John. See? Now that was polite, not like... John...?'

I've already located her laptop abandoned under the coffee table and I'm swooping over it. Sherlock and I offered it to her over Christmas, the year we first took over 221B. Cost all my spare money, and some of Sherlock's petty cash, and somehow I don't believe I've ever been so happy about offering someone a well-deserved gift. 'I'll explain it later, Mrs H, I promise!' I postpone, endearingly.

She just turns and mumbles away, muttering under her breath about my Sherlock-likeness, as she moves on to tidy up the kitchen. Maybe she's got a point, I'm forced to agree, as I'm kneeling on the floor, crouching under the coffee table over a laptop, in order to hastily get information onto the laptop's screen.

In the back of my mind I find Mrs Hudson's background noises soothing, as a comforting presence, and understand how much it works for Sherlock. _Maybe she recognised my frazzled state. _As Mrs Hudson is clinking glasses and shutting drawers, I haste to find traces of Sherlock's investigations in the internet history, in his folders (too many for a laptop that is not even his), in the downloads.

_Mrs Hudson may be slightly addicted to cute kittens' videos. Never mind!_

Finally I seem to find one vital clue. Just before the concert, Sherlock emailed himself (to have on his phone, I suppose) the blueprints of an old warehouse in the Soho.

Seems like the design of a regular warehouse to me. I don't know how or why this is pertinent – I'll leave that to Sherlock.

Right now, all I allow myself to care about is to go rescue him. I hesitate for no more than an instant, wondering if I can still gather my army and backup team. _I don't have the time._

Getting up from the carpet by the coffee table in one swift move I run over to the mantelpiece. I toss the skull over my shoulder to my armchair and take the small wooden box underneath. _It's definitely and emergency, Sherlock._ Opening it, I retrieve a very small (deadly nevertheless) handgun. A relic from some important client, antique shop or curiosity museum, I have no idea. All through my time in Baker Street I kept that small handgun as clean as my own Browning. Wouldn't want Sherlock to suffer an accident due to his laziness, the day he needed to fire it to protect himself.

Hopefully, it's still minimally clean and oiled.

'John, does Sherlock know you're taking his things?' I still hear Mrs Hudson admonish me, as I'm racing down the stairs.

'I'll make it up to him!' I promise, biting back a smile.

_Baker Street is home to a dysfunctional home._

_**.**_

I need to keep my faith in Sherlock. If anyone can solve this, it's him. I'm just the middle man. As long as I follow the leads left behind for me, I can solve his kidnapping.

I don't actually think he left those clues for me, but for Greg and the Scotland Yard. Bypassing his brother entirely. But then again, Mycroft Holmes wouldn't need clues, given his intellectual superiority – or so he claims.

_**.**_

The cab dropped me off as close as I would dare. Now it's all up to me. Should be simple. Infiltrate, neutralise, get Sherlock, come out.

Piece of cake.

My footsteps are echoing in the night, as I turn a cold dark corner that the street lights can't quite brighten, all my senses are engaged. This is it, I gather, drawing out the handgun from my pocket and holding it steady in my hand. My chance to do some good by Sherlock.

The warehouse door is not locked, I realise as I struggle to twist the handle silently. As the door is cracked open to a vast dark open area, I lean against the door frame, take a deep breath, and storm inside, gun steady in my hand.

_It's empty._

I can see the vast space at intervals, as the light filters in through cracks in the boarded windows as random lonesome cars pass with headlights on through the road outside.

_It's a dead end._ If Sherlock was ever here, he's been taken away from this place.

I may have taken too long to follow a simple lead.

Methodically – or plain desperately – I go through all the empty area, trying to find the smallest trace of Sherlock, or where to go next. I only stop, with my phone's torch app flashing in my hand, when a small noise outside startles me.

As small as it was, it sent my hairs standing on end. Something, instinct possibly, tells me it wasn't right. I get equally suspicious of the silence that follows it.

In flexible moves and virtually silent footsteps I recede back to the dark street outside. The quiet darkness seems as sterile as ever.

Suddenly, bright lights from a car swerving away from the road's path blind me with their intensity. _It's heading for me._ I'm left frozen, dazzled, to the spot as someone behind the wheel of a car is gunning for me.

Must have been waiting for me.

I fell for it way too easily for a former soldier.

My hand on the warehouse's door behind me, I desperately twist it in search of an outing. It won't give in, locked tight.

The car is still speeding towards me. In that narrow sidewalk I might just stand a chance if I flatten myself against the wall. The car will certainly curve before crashing into me and the building's wall, right?

_I'll try that._

_After I shoot out its tires._

Gun in hand, I raise my arm to align it with the fast approaching target, and squeeze the trigger. The front tire hisses and collapses, still rolling. I expected the driver to slow down the car. Instead, he's having too much trouble steering it.

_Back to plan A: run!_

Before I can gain any considerable distance, the whole back part of the car is responding too slowly to the brakes and skidding sideways. Then it's too late and I'm hit by the ungoverned steal mass that is currently rasping the brick wall, luckily slowing it down. The knock makes me lose my footing at once, I'm propelled on my back against the car boot where my head hits the metal, but that's the last thing on my mind as I immediately lose all contact with the solid surface and I'm flying off behind the car, straight into the tarmac.

_John!_

For a delirious moment I thought I could hear my friend's muffled scream with my name. Could it be that he's trapped in the back seat of that car?

Pain and nausea hit me at once, as the trauma to the thorax area leaves me gasping for air. Can't be bothered now. I clasp my fingertips over the handgun I never let go of, and with a shaky right hand I fire at the car's back tires. My double vision hinders my accuracy and squanders away any chances of stopping them from taking Sherlock away.

I lower my gun to the oily soggy mess on the road where I'm laying, useless and hopeless. _I failed Sherlock again._

_I'm sorry, Sherlock._

**.**

'Oh, my god, John, what happened? Come in!'

Molly Hooper is just about forcefully yanking me inside her flat. With brown eyes wide, slight shortness of breath, yet puzzling steadiness of medical gestures, she pulls me over to a small sofa in the living room. Immediately she grabs hold of the reading lamps' focus and turns it straight onto me.

_I can't tell anymore whether she intends to help me or interrogate me._

'John, you're hurt!' she tells me, with a sweet innocence that draws a meek smile out of me.

'Well, yes', I mutter, croakily, 'but that's not why I am here, Molly.'

'What happened?' she insists. 'Have you gone for x-rays yet?'

'I almost had him, Molly', I fess up despite myself.

'Who?' she looks genuinely puzzled as she insists on prodding around the gash in my forehead. 'Who is the bad guy this time?'

'A secret society Sherlock has been spying on. They've got hold of war secrets and intended to sell them. Sherlock managed to stop that from happening, I think... Molly, they've got Sherlock.'

'What?' she hisses as she freezes unnaturally, her hand in the air between us. I'd rather she'd get it over with and just slap me for letting it happen to Sherlock. Instead, she's still catching up, incredulous. 'A secret society has got Sherlock? How did that happen? What do they want from him?'

'They've kidnapped him. I told Greg, even told Mycroft, but no one believes me. So I went to get him back on my own. Almost made it. Well, not almost. In the end, I managed to spook them away from their warehouse and they took Sherlock. This time I have no more leads from Sherlock himself to help me. I... _I lost him, Molly._'

She purses her lips sternly. 'I'm going to disinfect your wounds and check for broken bones. You're going to stay sitting down, drink a cup of tea, and tell me all about it from the beginning.'

Rattled by exhaustion and anxiety, I choose to give up in the end. _Have Molly be the judge of my actions._ I try to keep logic and calm as I summarise all that happened since the evening started.

In the end, she asks me in a broken voice: 'You should have come to me, John. I would have believed you. Why didn't you?'

I recall how Molly was essential to bring Reichenbach's plan to completion and I must recognise how fully Sherlock trusts her. I didn't come to Molly because I was trying to assemble an army. I know Sherlock has always tried to keep her protected. How could I take the first opportunity in which Sherlock is not here to demolish all his hard work in keeping her safe?

Only at this point I notice a particular aftertaste on my tea. _Narcotics._

She's intent on making me rest.

I misjudged Molly again._ She's a ruthless army of one._

'It's okay if you hate me', I mutter, trying to fight the sedatives to the very end. 'I already do.'

Molly lowers a soft hand to my arm as she takes my cup. 'I wouldn't dream of it. Sherlock would be mad with both of us.'

In the end I find no answer and finally give in.

_**.**_

It's early morning and I've been to Scotland Yard, just before Greg Lestrade arrived at work. They know me (and Sherlock) well at Scotland Yard. I asked if I could wait for Greg in his office. It took a little persuasion and then there I was in the small office, closing the door behind me. I didn't dare to close the blinds in the glass dividers. I just acted as if it was absolutely natural for me to go round his desk and sit at his chair, in front of the computer.

_I do that a lot, now. Take other people's seats._

Sally probably thought I was pranking Greg back. She fins our pranks too immature to meddle with. Sally just shook her head, grabbed her coffee and returned to her desk.

_Great._ She would be in trouble if anyone found out I was hacking into Scotland Yard's data base. I even know Greg's login and password – Sherlock told me once – and the whole thing is easier than I'd have thought.

Two minutes later and I know who is the warehouse's proprietary, a man named Chandler, with hidden connections to a so-called secret society that Scotland Yard can't name. I'm guessing it's the same one Sherlock was studying before the concert.

I mean; sure there must be plenty of secret societies out there, but what are the odds?

I have the missing link Scotland Yard lacked. I know what the society deals with. Wartime secrets for sale. I can build a case against them and bring them to justice. But only after I get Sherlock back home safely.

Leaving Greg's office behind, I mutter some excuse to Sally for leaving so early, she ignores me anyway. In no time I'm leaving the premises, just as I catch a glimpse of Greg's car being parked on its usual spot.

_**.**_

I don't care about secret societies. Could be the whole of the MI5 for all I care. You don't get to take away Sherlock from Baker Street. Only person that can do that is himself. And until I have Sherlock telling me this is his choice (again), I'm going there to get him back. No matter the cost.

I've made a mistake last night. Approaching the warehouse made them aware of who I am, if they didn't suspect already. Most of all, it added me to their target list.

_Good._ Whatever it takes to draw their attention from their hostage. I'll focus it on me, instead. I'll make sure he's left alone. I'll handle them, instead.

_**.**_

I've studied all the data Sherlock had saved on laptops. I've infiltrated Scotland Yard in order to access further information on these creeps. I've found plenty. Cross-referencing both sources I've understood what they want with Sherlock, who they are and their power. Only thing I couldn't find was their headquarters' address.

I need to go back to 221B. Maybe I missed some information Sherlock saved on the laptops about this Chandler leading character. So far, he's rumoured to be just a high-powered ghost in the organisation.

As I'm crossing the street in a direct beeline to the familiar green door with golden lettering, the sharp loud noise of tires screeching on the tarmac startles me. A dark heavy car is speeding towards me.

_Shit - again._

This time it's coming for me.

I can still turn this in my favour.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	64. Chapter 64

_A/N: Finally the fourth and last one. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

To the very end, I refused to let go of Sherlock. Maybe that explained the intense relief washing over me at the most inadequate time – as I'm being manhandled and thrust inside a familiar black car (with a dent at the back). The car came to Baker Street, halted by my side, and is now taking me off as a prisoner.

_I've got myself kidnapped just like Sherlock. I'm feeling proud right now._

I hope I was kidnapped by the correct secret society, though. _Otherwise it'd be a nuisance. Keep positive, John!_

I'm being ruefully tied up in the back seat by a bulky man, while another keeps pointing his gun in my direction. Scared of me much? I smirk, defiantly.

'You've been looking for Sherlock Holmes', the man with the gun tells me.

I pretend to shrug as unimportant, keeping my guards up. 'Yeah, I'm always doing that.'

'Sherlock Holmes is being uncooperative', he adds.

'Yes', I nod, 'that sounds a lot like the Sherlock I know.'

'So we came to get a leverage', he identifies. _Me._

'I'm just his blogger.'

'You haven't been posting.'

'Sherlock keeps on borrowing my laptop', I assure them.

'Enough', he tells me briskly. With one look towards his partner they both conclude I'm tied enough for their safety. _Amateurs!_ I'd try to get myself free, but I need to be taken to Sherlock. If there ever was a dastardly plan, this would be it.'

I look outside the window at the fast paced landscape, before I decide to keep them on edge.

'Old wartime secrets, is that it? If there's something to solve, like riddles to find hidden gold or the hideout for missing ammunition, you really should know that I'm not as clever as Sherlock. But I'm still okay to give it a try!'

'That's enough, keep quiet.'

'Or else?'

'I'll shoot you.'

'Oh, right... Yeah, that settles it.'

_**.**_

At the very end of London's outskirts our limousine-type of car _– it takes Sherlock to be kidnapped in style; and now me as well_ _– _turns into a private gravel path leading up to an old house. _Must be where they're keeping my friend._ The solid stone mansion is somewhat degraded, with at least a couple of cracked windows and a dried climbing ivy obscuring half of the façade. At this dark, cloudy morning light, this place has the makings of a haunted house.

As a modern secret society this is very unimpressive; not very secretive and not very modern either.

I'd expect Sherlock to have told them this already. He must be driving them up the walls.

As soon as the car stops, still a while away from the main house, I know this is my cue. I unbind my hands from behind my back and swing a straight punch at the man holding the threatening gun. As I get hold of the firearm the two of them are on top of me, trying to contain me. Sure I could shoot them – but that would be dishonest cheating. I use the back end of the gun as a blunt weapon to hit the unarmed man again while at the same time I'm kicking the bigger fellow back against the car door. No doubt the driver will be meddling in soon enough! I may want to hurry up.

The first man is out of action (slight concussion, he'll be fine with some proper rest), the second has launched himself on top of me. Oh, yes, he's at least one foot taller and another wider than me, I compare, as he's pressing me down against the seat, over me. I punch him in the stomach and it slows him down, but not nearly enough. That's when I spot some hesitation over his knee. By the stiff angle, maybe even a prosthetic. _I'm really, really sorry about this!_ He won't need another surgery, I'll just twist—

He shrieks and backs off immediately, holding on to his knee in disbelief.

'You'll be fine, I'm a doctor. Plenty of ice and a couple of painkillers every eight hours', I tell him.

Too late, the door behind me is being opened by the driver. He and I have a little score to settle. He stands there, impeding my way out, with a taser gun in his hand.

'Excuse me, I need to get out', I state calmly so not to aggravate the situation.

'No.'

I sigh. Three fast moves and he's falling on the ground on top of his own taser. He really shouldn't be playing with those toys, it can be dangerous. He'll be out cold for a while.

'Remember: ice and painkillers!' I repeat as I get out of the car at last.

_**.**_

I'm inside the gates that circle the house. Sherlock is being held somewhere in there. It's heavily guarded, I'd assume, and they know I'm coming in already. They know of me, my blog, probably they are aware of my career. One thing alone they are about to find out; how stubborn I can be. I didn't get to Captain just for being a medic. This is a hostage-retrieval operation in London. I've got a gun and no team (they backed out). Back in Afghanistan we wouldn't be too shy to call this a suicide mission. Hopefully I can change that definition. Find something I can use to negotiate the hostage's release. Get the insurgent's leader, for example.

_I mean: the secret society's leader. Get a grip, Captain!_

I find the windows on the ground floor unlocked. It's not surprising, given the high walls and the fire power. I open one slowly and climb inside silently. I even take the precaution of closing the window after me so the air drafts won't alert them of my presence.

This richly decorated living room is empty. As I'm looking around I recognise the distant murmur of voices from next door.

Gun in my steady hand I approach the inner communication door and twist it open at once.

At the centre of a library room there's a tall thin man that I recognise at once from the Yard's data base. This is the leader, Chandler. We focus our guns on each other, in a deadlock. I maintain my target stubbornly as I glance across the room, taking it in, searching for his accomplices.

'Let Sherlock go.'

I'm pointing the gun rudely at Chandler's face. He doesn't even blink. It's as if he thinks he's invincible. From the back of the old library I can finally spot Sherlock. He looks pale, dazed, and he's minutely swaying out of balance in the chair where he sits. I have no doubt that his quiet compliance is a product of sedation.

I struggle to keep my weapon straight with the shock.

That they'd do that to the man that has been clean for the last months, that everyday fights invisible battles I can only phantom, is a deep ugly betrayal to his core and his resilience. He's Sherlock Holmes. He's the best man I've ever met. No one gets to do this and lives to tell the tale, if it's up to me.

Blood boiling in my veins, I intensify the grip on my gun.

'I said: let him go.'

Chandler insists, in a blank, slightly deranges voice: 'I'm afraid it's not possible. The Society has chosen your friend as our latest member. He's been less than acceptant of our honour... so far.'

_Don't speak to me of Honour. You have no idea what it really means._

I need to play along. Give Sherlock time to recuperate some, to smarten up. 'Yeah, Sherlock turned away a knighthood... about half-a-dozen times already.'

Chandler's greedy eyes open wide. 'But the pride, the joy...!'

'That's not why he does what he does', I assure simply. _Sherlock Holmes is a hero for the right reasons._

At that moment the society's leader drops his gun a couple of millimetres, distracted, and Sherlock energetically springs out of his chair astonishing us both.

_Still unarmed, but that's not as if Sherlock with his big brain really needs a gun._

Sherlock swings his arm violently and the next thing I know Chandler is hit by some ugly gold platted decor piece that knocks him to the ground in no time. His gun falls as well, and Sherlock steps on it, claiming it at once.

_Or Sherlock could use force_, I consider_. Yeah, that works too. And probably is a bit more cathartic, given what he's been through._

I'm already lowering myself to the unconscious man on the floor, briefly checking him out. Sherlock hands me a curtain's silk rope to tie him up. I can still notice a minute shaking to his hands as he hands it to me. 'Are you okay, Sherlock?' I insist on asking. I know he won't be particularly forthcoming on this matter.

He smirks. 'I was playing an act. As a doctor you should have noticed, John.'

I can see that tremor in his hand, proving that he's been exaggerating, not making it up altogether. The late signs of a drug or the early signs of withdrawal. Before I can out him, Sherlock adds in a humble voice:

'I seem to have some "resistance" build up over the years, John. This time it worked in my favour.'

When didn't it-? _Oh._ Sherlock distracts me immediately by whinnying in a homely fashion: 'Well, you took your time getting here, John!'

_Hey, how come this is my fault now?_ I'm about to protest when hurried footsteps are erupting from outside the library. Sherlock glances at me, as if checking if they're my team or the other side and deduces the answer easily.

'This is not over yet, John', he warns me calmly.

_The game is on_, I smirk. He copies my smirk. It's good to have him back at my side. Okay, that makes it true; _I'm a clingy sidekick_, grateful to be back by Sherlock's side.

'How many are they?' my friend asks me sharply, yanking me from my thoughts.

'Eight more', I respond out of instinct. Wait, how did I know that? And how come Sherlock expected me to be counting the enemy agents in the back of my mind?

He smiles softly as he reads my confusion, still he won't enlighten me.

'Can you take four?' he asks me. My four. Four each. _Do I seriously look all that worse for wear __after yesterday night?_

I nod quietly. _And I'll still be ahead of you in the tally, Sherlock._

Both armed with guns we prepare to exit the library and break out of the secret society's headquarters. We flatten ourselves against the wall on either side of the library's main door. I take a deep breath, our eyes cross. _We've got this, Sherlock, right?_

Before we can spring into action the thunderous sound of a helicopter approaching cuts loudly through the air. I frown in confusion.

'Mycroft', Sherlock identifies easily. I'm stuck on my frown. Can this be big brother and a family-sized assault team, who has summoned him? Mostly, who has convinced him to come?

'Sherlock, did you...?' I start.

'No. Didn't you...?' he replies.

'Molly', I identify, surprised.

'Molly?' he frowns.

'I asked her for help', I fess up. 'But how did she know where...?'

'She didn't need to. Once Mycroft is engaged, he can solve any puzzle in a jiffy.' Sherlock dramatically rolls his eyes as if despising his big brother's meddling on his affairs. The light green tinge on his softened eyes says otherwise. 'New plan, John: we hold out and Lestrade and Mycroft will get us out.'

'Lestrade?' I repeat. Is he implying Greg found out I hacked into his computer at the Yard? No, of course not, Sherlock couldn't know.

'Mycroft is lazy. He wouldn't go into action without double checking the need with Lestrade.'

So Greg must have believed me in the end. _That's nice._

_**.**_

Somewhere at the old house, secret society members are being taken in for questioning, and Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes are arguing about the credits of the case. One claims it for the Scotland Yard, the other to national secrecy. To me it's quite simple. Sherlock saved the day. Even at a weak point, he was never completely without control at the hands of his kidnappers. Binding his time, gathering damning evidence, waiting for me to hurry up. Well, actually, great credit is also due to Molly's persuasiveness.

As for me, I only did the basic.

Just like now, inviting Sherlock for a stroll in the gardens, away from the others, disguising Sherlock's minimal tremor that I know, in time, will fade again. Because Sherlock is a hero and he'll pull through time and time again.

I stop, dead on my tracks, and demand to be answered: 'Did you know, Sherlock? That you were going to get kidnapped, that you were leaving me behind with no explanation?' _Did you ditch me?_

Sherlock must have sensed the hidden energy underlining my simple questions. He halts as well, and turns to me in one move. 'John', he says my name slowly. Then he blinks, once, twice, not adding further information to his reply. Finally he half-nods, not very convincingly. _What does it mean?_ 'I had equated it as a possibility, John. One I was hoping wouldn't come to be.' He blinks again, as if breaking the invisible spell he's under, and states coldly: 'I positioned you in the audience, John.'

'Hm', I state, blank for words. Angry, hurt.

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. 'Didn't place you backstage, John. There's a subtle difference to be appreciated there, I believe.'

_Yeah, you gave me a chair to sit on, while waiting for you to get kidnapped._

'No', Sherlock says out of the blue, as if answering my unspoken thoughts. I figure I'm too expressive.

'That wasn't right, Sherlock', I tell him, contained, dignified.

'What? Trusting you?'

I shake my head angrily. Compliments can't erase the manipulation. He has no idea what it was like for me. _He really doesn't._ He's Sherlock, the genius of Baker Street. Socially inadequate git.

He cuts my thoughts short, stating: 'It doesn't mean I wasn't aware of how hard it'd be.' _Does he mean emotionally or technically?_

'Sometimes you have too much faith in me, Sherlock.' With a sigh I resume our walk.

He shakes his head quietly. 'You're not asking the right question, John.'

_Don't feel like playing charades now, Sherlock._ 'And that is?'

'What have I learnt? What have we stopped? Was it worth it?'

'I suppose you are about to tell me it was all worthwhile, we saved the world, the whole shebang.' I just cross my arms in front of me, uninterested.

_He'd do it again. Because of a greater good._

_Only this time he'd know he would be doing wrong by me._

_Small victories, I suppose._

Sherlock looks all around the property before insisting: 'I told you all about it before the concert, John.' He halts again. So do I.

'We met at the theatre house', I remind him, angrily.

He shakes his head, aloof. 'I'm quite sure I told you all about it at Baker Street, John.'

I sigh, frustrated. 'Was this one of those times when you speak to me for hours while I'm not actually there, Sherlock?'

He frowns. 'Of course you were there, John. Where else would you be?'

_At home._ I guess that settles that one.

'You planned to be kidnapped, Sherlock, and you didn't make sure I knew what to do?'

He glances at me, looking guilty, for an instant. 'I see where I may have gone wrong. Still, I knew you'd save me.' He starts walking again.

'Did you, now?' I retort, following my crazy friend.

'I know you'd tell Greg who to follow. The bassoonist would lead you here.'

'Oh.' I'm torn between sarcasm and frustration.

'And my brother would mastermind a safe plan.'

'Yeah, about that... You may want to have a word with him.'

Sherlock finally turns directly to me. 'Why did you go to the warehouse alone, John?'

_I had no choice._ I skip the answering part on this one.

'I tried to stop them, John. When I thought they had— It was the longest two point one seconds in my life. That's how long it took you to fire at the tires again. It's possibly a bit _not good_ that I really enjoyed hearing the sound of gunshots fired towards my vicinity.'

I turn my head away, trying to hide my smirk and swallowing a giggle. As I turn back to Sherlock, there's a relieved smile in his face. That git thinks I've forgiven him already!

'By the way', I ask all of a sudden, 'where's your violin?' I blank my expression, feeling that this bluff will set us even at last.

Sherlock's face drains fast. 'John! I left it backstage for you!'

'Did you, now?' I realise that Sherlock never lets anyone touch his prized possession. He's only allowed me or Mrs Hudson, on occasion. 'I'm sure they kept it somewhere, Sherlock. Lost and found section, perhaps?' I wave off my hand, vaguely.

'John, it was right there!' He looks speechless for once, borderline catatonic.

'Oh, sorry, did I leave it behind?'

He gulps drily, endless pain and sorrow clouding his raw expression. It saddens me, this notion that it belongs there, I've seen it there too often.

He doesn't deserve it, and I sigh and lower my head. Sherlock's a git, but that's just who he is. He wouldn't be Sherlock any other way, and I wouldn't be John without confessing: 'Baker Street. Your violin is waiting there safely. I'm sorry, Sherlock, this was wrong of me. I was mad, and it was wrong.'

'So you did take it?' he confirms. _Just confessed to it, Sherlock._ Guess it was quite a shock.

'As carefully as I could. I know how much the violin means to you.' He glances away, shyly. I feel like crap. 'Can I make it up to you?'

Sherlock is looking straight at me, innocence in his eyes.

'I understand it now, John. The point you're trying to make. But you should know that you are much more than one of my favourite objects. It's hardly the same. The violin doesn't come rescue me, can't cheer me up on a bad day... Hardly worth being jealous over it, John.'

_What_—_? _No!_ I'm not_—_!_

He's already giggling devilishly. I sigh again in frustration. But I can't help joining in on his laughs.

'Your violin _begged _me to be taken home safely, Sherlock! How could I not?'

'What else was I supposed to write?'

' "John, I'm about to be kidnapped and I need you to take my violin and then come rescue me at a creepy old house. Thanks, Sherlock." '

'It was all there, John! Subtext!'

I giggle harder. He's stopped giggling already, looking at me attentively, taking me in. Anyway, I think he got it now, and I struggle to sober up.

_Okay, Sherlock, you're forgiven. This time._

_**.**_

* * *

_2__nd__ A/N: As far as continuity goes, it's only fair to be noted that neither Sherlock nor John had the chance to change garments since the concert. So we'd be expecting them to go all story long on their smartest suits... Just saying. -csf_


	65. Chapter 65

_**.**_

My phone beeps with an incoming text message. _Greg Lestrade._ I lazily open it as the kettle is about to boil. Nothing could be more homely than a nice cup of tea after a long shift at the clinic. Only, the words that flash on the screen say nothing of tea or rest.

«Sherlock, need help. Can't trust the Yarders right now, explain later.  
John, I was shot. Swing by Baker Street with first aid kit?»

I reread the words twice, as if all of a sudden they feel foreign and in need of translation. _Greg needs my help._

Damn the tea. _I'm already on my way, Greg!_

_**.**_

I took a cab. The underground isn't fast enough. Mid-way my brain recovered some faculties and that text's portion where Greg explicitly mentioned that he couldn't trust his own colleagues in Scotland Yard jumps at me. I make the cabbie pull up further down the street. As we rolled past Sherlock's windows I couldn't tell a thing different from their usual look. Eerie monotony, that couldn't tell me whether Greg made it to Baker Street or not.

Of course I tried to phone Greg, more than once. Probably I shouldn't have, seeing that he seems to be on the run.

Doesn't matter; if he managed to send a text, he'd manage to silence his phone if required.

He never took the calls anyway.

I'm deeply unsettled by worry as I walk the familiar street, leading to 221B.

The same text was sent to both Sherlock and me. Sherlock never leaves his phone alone. Hopefully he saw the text and immediately secured the street with his secret network. I know he'd never fail to come to Greg's aid. For all the times Greg came to his, like a fatherly figure, an incredibly patient friend, or the man who tries to record us on his camera phone when we've had one too many pints at the pub. I know that even if Sherlock doesn't like to show it, he knows he owes Greg big time.

Greg put his career on the line multiple times to give Sherlock cases he couldn't solve because he saw in Sherlock a great potential even before it became evident in the eyes of the public. He trusted the dangerously bored, often unstable genius in Sherlock, long before I met them. Sherlock must know that.

Even if he didn't, Sherlock still wouldn't let Greg down. There's a big heart hidden inside the cold detached exterior he projects to the world.

221's door, and I take the precaution of using the golden knocker, even if I never returned the key to Mrs Hudson. I knock one sharp beat and three louder, more prolonged ones. Morse code for the letter J.

_I'd do "JHW", but it's a tad long._ Might arise suspicions.

Finally I use my key to let myself in, crossing the threshold with a careful hand over my medical bag – a sort of personalised and extended first aid kit, that also happens to carry my gun today.

As I enter, Mrs Hudson is at the entrance with quite a number of stern faced unfamiliar persons. _They must be on to Greg already._ Immediately she claps her hands together and greets happily: 'John, what a lovely surprise! Had you told me, I'd have baked a cake to go with a lovely cup of tea!' As she speaks she's coming over to relieve me of my coat and bag. _Not fooled for a second there, Mrs H! You're not the housekeeper. You're in on the plan, with Sherlock._

'I'm taking these to your room, seeing that Sherlock told me you'll be staying tonight.'

_Mrs Hudson, you're a star! And quite the professional Hollywood movies' start too._

I smile to thank her and quite naturally take over the guests analysing our interactions. 'Clients of Sherlock?' I say just to annoy them. They look like secret services agents as it is, doubtfully they would come in a pack to consult Sherlock Holmes.

'Bodyguards', she dares to say in a colloquial tone. 'Sherlock's having a top secret meeting with their boss from Scotland Yard', she downplays it with a frown and a shake of the head.

'Jolly good', I mutter, absent-mindedly. What she has just told me is the factual truth as she knows it and gossip as far as our eavesdroppers are concerned. 'I think I'll go up now.'

Every bulky agent turns to look at me in an unfriendly manner. I add, hiding my smirk: 'To the room upstairs from 221B. I rent it. Didn't you see me enter with my own key?'

They stand down. One goes as far as to tell me: 'Carry on, Mr Watson.'

_It's not like I need your permission._ I tilt my head, but force myself to keep quiet. _I outrank you as we stand here, and it's "Captain Watson" to you._

They know who I am fully well, calling me by my last name.

I take my things back from Mrs Hudson with a reassuring smile and energetically head upstairs, straight to my old room, under the bodyguards' close watch.

As I pass the shut doors of 221B I take care to creak that annoying floor board, to let Sherlock know I'm home.

_Well, his home._

_Still feels like my home in many ways._

_**.**_

I fight the urge to knock on my old bedroom's door before I twist the handle, so I won't raise logical suspicions. The idea comes out of instinct, knowing the room won't be as empty as I left it. Right now, more than the old wallpapered walls or the mismatched pieces of furniture, I urge to find my friend - wounded, and in need of support.

As I push the door open at last, I'm startled by the sight of a very scared Greg, standing up and pointing his gun at my face with trembling hands. I greet him with a soft smile, as he lowers his gun with a relieved sigh.

'It's you, John', he says, out of breath. _I really should have knocked._ 'Sorry about the gun.'

'Not at all!' I dismiss at once, naturally.

Before the hundreds of questions I want to make, I need to do my job. I pull up a chair by the desk and signal him. Sweaty, shaky, but brave, Greg comes over and allows himself to swamp over the chair. I turn on the projecting light towards Greg's stomach area, where an ominous dark red stain tinges his shirt.

It's with complete trust that he allows me to rip the fabric open and glance at the hidden mess. Right now I need to push away all curiosity and empathy; Greg's my patient first, and a friend later.

As I'm analysing the patient for basic pupil's reaction, breathing sounds, heart rate, the lot, I hear the door behind me softly open. I look at Greg's eyes. Confidence remains. It's Sherlock then. I keep myself busy, assessing by instinct what usually doctors rely on machines to do for them.

Sherlock waits for me to put the stethoscope down and unplug it from my ears before stating: 'It seems to be a bad graze, just that. I had a look, John', he admits at once.

That's for me to check, along with all the possible complications that wouldn't cross Sherlock's medically untrained mind. But I see now how he actually allowed Greg to be alone, waiting in my room, as he played along for looks downstairs.

'Breathe in, breathe out, Greg, slowly. How long ago have you been shot?'

He clears his throat and states calmly: 'Just before I texted you, John. I screwed up.'

I shake my head briskly. _Not now, Greg, let me do my job first. Doctors aren't supposed to care for their friends. They become too emotional and fail to make the right call at difficult times. You need to be just a patient before I can make a mistake._ Let me push away the shirt's fabric and have a proper look. 'Can you take a good deep breath for me? That's it, hold it in, now. Dizzy, nauseous, anything?'

He nods to all of the above. There's been some blood loss and Greg's no teenager either, but the bleeding has mostly stopped now, no major organs were directly involved, he's no in immediate danger. I'll keep an eye on him through the night for the off chance of cloths in the blood stream. All in all, a peaceful rested night and he should feel much better in the morning.

'Where did you get this case, Lestrade?' Sherlock interrupts, leaning forward to scrutinise our friend's answers. _He can't help it, not anymore. This is his instinct, his feral answer to a mystery coming to close to home. Seeing that Greg will pull through, Sherlock now wants to work on his freedom._

'Hang in there!' I interrupt. 'Sherlock, this is hardly the right time, when Greg is_–_'

In a twisted act of protection _–_ a different sort of it, one that is based on solving the immediate danger rather than resting and recuperating in safety _–_ Sherlock turns to me and arrogantly claims: 'Have you got a better plan? By the way, I saw your plan, John, on arrival. Full of clever precautions and all?' He starts deducing them, in disbelief: 'that is to say I saw you go past Baker Street's windows in a cab. Took your time, I was pretending to analyse the Scotland Yard's credentials at the window's natural light for up to a minute and a half – that's hardly in pace with my reputation! Your cab then went past Baker Street, with you looking out furtively. Then you came walking back, and for what other purpose than looking exceedingly guilty?'

_Oh. _He's got a point. 'Went to buy a scratch card?' I venture, with a shoulder shrug. 'I don't know. Seriously, Sherlock, do normal people act normal when they aren't even trying to act normal? Are we all that logical and reasonable?'

He ponders for a second, looking around. 'Yes', he actually sustains. 'Yes, especially you, John, you have always been a comfort to watch. I could always tell when you were about to make yourself a cup of tea at least three seconds before you got up.'

I frown. 'I'm not that lazy. I always get up straight away to make my cuppa.'

'Your eyes wonder to the kitchen and you gulp drily. It's not rocket science, John!'

'How did you know it was tea?'

'By the hour of the afternoon or evening. Sometimes mornings. You consume large amounts of tea, John.'

_Am I seriously that predictable?_

_Anyway why would Sherlock care if I was about to make tea – of all mundane things! – unless he was hoping I'd make him a cup as well? Who's the lazy one now?_

'John, focus', he scolds me easily. 'This is not about tea. It's about cabs and windows, Morse code and creaking floor boards when I already knew by Greg's text you were on your way.'

'You may not have realised I was already here, or that I had gone up passing the security guards at the entrance', I point out brilliantly.

He rolls his eyes, impatiently. 'Scratch cards delaying you again?' he further depreciates. '_Just drop it, John, _you are John Watson, you wouldn't waste time in coming to the aid of a friend. That I know as a fact.'

_Did he just acknowledge–?_

'Guys!' Greg Lestrade interrupts us at that point. I realise we may have left him waiting as we carried on with our little argument. In truth, Greg should be used to it by now. This is crime scene Sherlock x John 101. _Being shot only gives you so much special privileges here, Greg. We've all been in your shoes._

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: Why? Because, in Sherlock's words: «Should any of you require the services of either of us, I will solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life.»  
__It's a beautiful line and a tantalising starting point.  
I'm living dangerously now; so I don't know whether there's more to this yet. -csf_


	66. Chapter 66

_A/N: __This one will certainly be the oddest one in the collection._

_If cats are not your thing, keep off this one and the next._

_Thanks to the lovely lady at a shop last Saturday, that introduced me to Sherlock the cat -__ a handsome black and white furry guy, distant at first, but fond of paying and very curious - and John the cat - a stocky blond-orange tabby with a quiet grumpy walk and eyes stuck on Sherlock's doings. It got me so speechless that all I kept muttering was: 'Oh, the names make sense, it makes perfect sense' (Say "__per-fect"__ not "__purr-fect"__!)  
__I had no courage in me to mention this that I do for a hobby.  
__Either way, it definitely helped make my day. _

_(As always) I can't explain; it just came out this way. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** part one / two .**_

I wake up with an incredible amount of fuzzy laziness. I'm not the grumpiest of people in the mornings, and today I'm quite the opposite from grumpy. Cosy warm bed, I could almost believe there's a contented low hum reverberating all over me. Stretching long limbs with more flexibility than ordinarily, this is when I can't shake off the impression that something is different...

Sherlock!' I call, accusingly, as soon as I get a glimpse of my furry paws extended above my whiskers. _Oh, this is all wrong. Where's that backstabbing—?_

Oh, was that _me_, hissing?

Well, I seem to be a cat, not a dog. And cats purr, stretch and hiss.

Why am I a golden furred stripped tabby cat?

_Well, this is Baker Street. If it had happened anywhere else I'd be panicking, not fuming._

Still no sign of Sherlock. I'm his little science-fiction experiment and he wanders off the map so not to hear some _hissed_ truths...

Oh, look, I've got claws!

And they're sharp. They may just come in handy.

Time for me to get out of bed and search for Sherlock. The crazy genius might even have turned himself into a feline as well. With his larger-than-the-room complex he might just be a lion by now. I need to make sure he handled his transformation into a feline well, before I go mad at him for not even asking for consent.

He'll probably tell me he didn't ask for consent because I'd have said No. Completely missing the point.

'Sherlock!' I call again, this time more patiently.

I wonder what my voice sounds like to the outside world... Am I meowing?

Oh, Sherlock, I wish you'd stop doing this shit to me. Turning me into a cute fluffy cat when I'm none of those. I'm a dangerous ex-soldier with bad days, and you should remember it more often. I'm not a_—_

_Why a cat, anyway?_

Nervous on my paws, I jump off my bed to the floor, landing with a crash. I'm not making any sense of this four legs business. I'm an uncoordinated mess.

That's it. I made it to the rug. That's all there is for today. I'll just press my belly to the ground, ears back (wait, I didn't know I could do that!), tail tapping and flipping behind me. I'll jump on anyone that comes in. I don't need food (I'm not eating out of a bowl!), litter box (have some dignity, Captain Watson!), and whatever cats do to pass the time. I'll wait here for my return to normality.

Sherlock's serums don't usually last for more than a couple of days.

_A couple of days..._ How come I'm still friends with Sherlock is beyond me.

I'm startled by the door opening slowly and before I know it, my neck hairs are on end, my whiskers are high up and pointy teeth on display, there's a scratchy dangerous sound hissing away.

From the narrow gap at the door an elegant long sinuous paw extends itself, all white and elegant. Immediately follows a triangular black and white head with angular light blue eyes.

'John? I was waiting for you downstairs', I hear in my friend's well known voice. So we _can_ understand each other. And he _did_ hear me calling him, panicking.

'Sherlock, what the hell_—_?'

Sherlock the cat tilts his head to the side, like he's always done anyway, and appears to be observing me throughout. It takes him a long time and I'm pinned on the spot by the intensity of his gaze, no matter the species. Finally his whiskers wave softly as he tells me:

'It worked better than I'd have hoped for.'

It's freaky to hear his voice in perfect synchrony with his whiskers' twitch and put the two of them together. Sherlock, as a cat, is too much to grasp and he's still half-concealed behind my room's door, immobile.

Oh. 'Come in, Sherlock.' For once in a lifetime you actually have permission. Don't think I don't know you've been in here before, without my consent. Speaking of which... 'You could have asked, Sherlock.'

'You'd have said No to a preposterous idea.'

'Would it have stopped you? Probably not. There would still be a case, or science, or boredom, or whatever reason there is to do this to me.'

'John...'

I relax onto the rug and curl myself into a tight ball, facing away from my hurtful friend. 'Leave me alone, Sherlock, I'll wait for it to go away.'

'But, John! There is an incredible opportunity!'

'Go have fun catching mice, but don't eat them. It's not sanitary. I won't be able to doctor you for the rest of the weekend. I can't do this four-legged thing.'

I hear the door creak behind me and gather Sherlock has fully entered the room. He wanted me to know it. As a bloody graceful cat he could have done it without moving the door.

There's a slight warm nudge of a wet nose over my shoulder blade. I pretend not to notice. He starts smelling me and it's not any less weird because we are cats now. I raise my head and watch him silently. 'You're not hurt, John. You smell of warm fur, with hints of tea and gunpowder. Nothing out of the ordinary.'

_What__—?_

'John, I'm not leaving you here', he tells me as he stubbornly seats on the floor, impatient fluffy tail making a fast whipping pace behind him, and shifting weight on his front paws every few seconds.

'Go away.' I lower my head.

'I've got tuna downstairs.'

That shouldn't sound especially nice, should it? But what's the point? I can't _go_ down.

There's a wet slurping noise and I raise my head again. I catch Sherlock licking his long paw like a true cat. He holds still and growls back: 'What?'

The bloody vain git will be grooming himself all weekend long. There'll be hairs all over 221B. He'll be forming a hair-ball soon enough. The thought scares me all of a sudden, and I'm fighting this instinctive urge to hide under a piece of furniture. The bed is too high. If I'm a real cat I should be able to squeeze under the bedside_—_

'John?' Sherlock interrupts my thoughts, as he changes paws and continues licking. 'You're freaking out, John. I can scent your panic rising.'

He just stands there, not a care in the world, after what he's done to me. Next time, I'll_—_

A loud sharp hiss behind me and I jump on all fours, hissing back, hairs on end, tail high, ears back. Immediately I see Sherlock in the same frozen attack poise, then releasing it to a happy light cat one, wavy tail, soft purring.

'See, you are all fine, John. Now, will you stop moping around?'

I'm still standing there, wondering how I got control of all my four legs (and an appendage tail) so fast. Am I seriously going to be able to be a cat for a while?

Sherlock's already at the door, waiting for me in complicity. In shaky steps I accept at last to leave the rug behind. This four legs business is not as bad as I first thought. Our paws scratching the wooden floor boards ever so slightly, we reach the stairs. Sherlock's at the front, and I'm trailing behind faithfully. He elegantly starts descending the stairs at once, as elegant as ever, tail waving high for balance and contempt. I follow him in more shaky legs. As he expected, I'm capable of overcoming stairs as well.

'Sherlock, why are we cats?' I ask, as we're entering the living room. He stops, bending his head and half his body with flexibility to face me.

'You were right, John. Science is always a good reason, but this time we've also got a case to solve.'

'In London? We're walking around busy London as cats?' I point out.

He does the feline equivalent of rolling his eyes. There's something so contemptuous in his expression that it reminds me more of Sherlock than a real cat.

'As cats we can climb and sneak, John. Not to mention this set of claws makes us not entirely defenceless.'

'Good, because I won't be able to carry a gun. And as to climbing, I'm not so sure that_—'_

'You're one scaredy-cat', he despises, coldly.

'I'm a soldier with an injured shoulder, walking on all fours. Did _that_ cross your big head?' I fight back, feeling a hiss coming up. A second later Sherlock's tail drops to the ground and his ears droop sadly.

'John, I...' He recuperates some composure and tells me: 'There's a counter-agent solution that we can have if we want to cease the effects of the serum early. It won't last longer than a day anyway. If your shoulder—'

'I'm fine', I snap back with a tail whisk and an abrupt turn to my chair. I try not to over think it as I jump to the red tapestry seat and curl myself like a ball. The chair feels huge now, but its familiarity comforts me.

'Look, if you need a vet...' he starts.

'I-don't-need-a-vet!' I scream back, half-hissed, half-growled, hairs on end.

He sniggers smugly in an expression that is not entirely off-putting in a cat.

Before I can calm down there are heavy footsteps on the stair to 221B. We cross gazes at once.

'You did tell Mrs Hudson...' I try to make sure.

'Couldn't', he denies it. 'She wouldn't have let me change us into _Felis catus_, would she?'

In the end, she would have, I know it. _We are both your enablers, Sherlock._ Too late now. If she recognised us like this it would be an unfair shock considering her age.

Only this is not Mrs Hudson, I can tell instinctively.

'Hide, Sherlock!' I tell him, as he's reaching the same conclusion. We part ourselves. Sherlock is elegantly climbing to the top of my chair, then balancing on the skull at the mantelpiece to finally reach the shelves' top. I'm heading to the cold fireplace, on top of the half-burnt logs.

_One way or another, I won't be a yellow-orange cat for long._

The door to 221B opens significantly just then.

'That's not Mrs H', I say quietly, as we inspect the visitor. Only then I remember I shouldn't talk – or meow – it'll give my position away.

How did this visitor pass Sherlock's big brother's vigilance? Only one twisted answer to that question. Sherlock was the one luring him here. Maybe he wants the house-breaking guest to take something from 221B, or wanted to ID him, or maybe we need to follow him.

Maybe Sherlock should have turned us into dogs instead.

The man walks over to my chair for some reason, and I'm doing all I can to hold inside a hiss.

It gets voiced by Sherlock anyway.

The man immediately turns his head to the majestic cat on the top of the left-hand side of the shelving. By his expression, he's not into cats. I feel my claws sticking out.

'What are you looking at?' the man curses rudely before he snatches something from the mantelpiece. In his hand, it looks like a brownish old map. The man then turns to leave 221B.

He's not even down the stairs yet – we can hear his heavy footsteps receding – and Sherlock is already jumping down, step by step.

'Sherlock, why did you call attention to yourself?' I ask, concerned. As a cat, Sherlock is as much the risk taker as in the human form.

'Couldn't help myself', Sherlock despises his instinct, as he waits for me to sneak out of the fireplace and have a good look at my blackened fur. In the end I opt to scrub by fur somewhat cleaner in the side tapestry of my chair.

I'll deal with it when I'm human again.

Suddenly I notice this is basic territory claiming feline behaviour. Am I seriously this disturbed by an intruder coming close to my armchair? Is my cat nature taking over already?

'Better?' Sherlock asks, as if he was waiting for me to still.

I'm fine, I'm not as vain as _some_.

'Let's go, then, we need to hurry, John! He's getting away!'

Finally Sherlock the cat leads the way out of Baker Street, tail high in the air, pointy whiskers as if looking for a prey, icy light blue eyes cornered languishingly, even a soft hummed purr emanates gently from his long silky fur. He's got all the typical smugness of a cat and the light glow of a happy feline being rubbed circles on the tummy. Sherlock as a cat is not a far stretch from Sherlock as a human detective, I notice once again. Vivaciously, he's threading his way into trouble. Behind him, I notice on the mirror at the entrance as we descend the last steps, there's a sturdy orange tabby with grumpy short-legged steps, smug whiskers and constant territorial glances. Even as a cat, I'm still Sherlock's bodyguard.

'John?'

Only at my friend's call I realise I've stopped before the mirror. _It will take me a while to get used to looking like a cat, Sherlock._

To tell the truth, I don't look much older than a grown kitten right now. Sherlock is a long sinuous elegant cat, and I'm a golden-haired stocky cat with a bad paw. _Who will ever take us seriously?_

'Yes, you are adorable as a kitten, John', Sherlock tells me with a feline eye roll, 'although you could use a bit more grooming on your fur, it's all disheveled from where you've been rubbing it.'

I turn my head to Sherlock silently. Did he just call my cat-self _cute?_

'You're not looking for a home, so will you cut the cuteness act already?'

I think I'm opening my round eyes wide in disbelief. 'There! See? Cut it out!'

I turn to the mirror again. _What__—?_ Don't see a thing different from usual (despite the obviousness). Sherlock must be winding me up.

I hear something that resembles a sigh before Sherlock carries on without me. I hurry along in a small run. 'Wait up!'

The more I use my four legs the better I am at this business.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	67. Chapter 67

_A/N: __Still not British, a writer, or a cat.__ -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** part two / two .**_

Sherlock and I came outside through a cracked open window in Mrs Hudson's flat. Either my friend did it himself earlier or he was aware of her habit, for there was no hesitation in Baker Street's cat detective.

Next we climbed up the bins (with a fairer amount of carefulness from me) and from there to the top of the wall between properties.

It's been interesting to realise that, once I gave in to instinct, it's been easy to manage this four legs business (plus one attached tail). We've been jumping onto rooftops, and walking on top of parked cars, there was even a trampoline somewhere (that proved more challenging to Sherlock's long limbs than my stocky ones in fact). We're still in hot pursue of the suspect that has taken off from Baker Street on foot since the bank is not far. It's a different kind of chase, one that is happening in the sidelines of what one usually considers London's street grid.

I'm feeling alive, and focused, and hero-ish. There's excitement building and energy bursting to get free, and I'm as thankful as ever to Sherlock for giving me _this_ \- I'm alive, happy and whole again.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock', I state under my breath. _I should have trusted you, instead of fighting you all the way. Thank you for insisting I didn't spend my day curled up in a rug. I'm glad you chose me to accompany you in this wacky science project._

Sherlock won't answer me, but I'd swear I can hear a low purr from the lead. Despite all his distance act, as a feline he keeps dropping minute hints of his true emotions. Or is it just easier for me as an animal to pick up on them?

'What is the case, Sherlock? How will this help us catch a criminal?'

'That man you saw is about to attempt to rob a bank by using old secret passages built into the was of this historic building, near the ground-level vaults.'

I whisk my tail, confused.

'So, that map... Is it a real map? From a building with a bank running in it, where real people keep money and valuables?'

'Yes', he maintains, with a nod. His human side prevailing, he explains: 'That man is a bank director and he came to me as a client and one of my brother's high poised acquaintances. The both frequent the Diogenes. Mycroft insisted I take the case. One look at his "friend" and I knew he was guilty, setting up a likely story about a bank robbers, to then take the lot himself. I knew by the tan on his collar line that he's into high risk adventure sports, so he was very attracted to risk taking and danger. He wouldn't let anyone else do the job. Less witnesses too, as an advantage. So I accepted to be the guardian to the client's map detailing the secret passages. Mycroft and I estimated that he'd be stealing his vaults within less than a fortnight. Keeping him under surveillance was a nuisance, so Mycroft planted a high catch bank deposit today, to stay in the vaults overnight. That pins the burglary date to today.'

'But why come here to get the map? It was his in the first place. He should be familiarised with the secret passages already.'

'He enjoys the high stakes. He needed to make sure we had it here. I believe he decided to attribute the crime to me, or Mrs Hudson, or you, by claiming the map to the "treasure" was here on Baker Street then one of us used it to steal the lot.'

I'm positive there's a low growl under Sherlock's speech.

'Fine, I get it. We're going to stop him. All we need is to set off the silent alarm so the police catches him in the act.'

'That's why we are cats', he agrees. 'Even if we get caught, no one will takes for burglars. I thought about dogs first, but dogs can be taught tricks. As cats...'

'We are independent jerks, or so people assume.'

'Exactly.'

'And how will you explain two cats inside a bank holding signs of "No animals allowed; except for Guide Dogs"?'

'Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Here's the bank, John. Down we go. Can you manage?'

It takes me a second to remember he's on about my bad paw. _Can't feel a thing right now, Sherlock. Either way you wouldn't have been able to stop me!_

_**.**_

'How will we get inside a heavily guarded bank, Sherlock?' I ask, naturally, to my friend.

I seem to have caught him slightly distracted as he's coughing a bit, back all arched up and whiskers twisted in silent complaint. _Told you about hair-balls, Sherlock._ _You've been grooming your fur too much._

After one last cough he turns to me and announces: 'Through the back. The alarm systems' only flaw is that's based on pressure sensors on the floor, triggered by weights higher than those of a small child. As cats we don't even reach the baseline on their scale.'

'I'll remember that while I'm having an extra serving if tuna tonight', I joke lightly. 'So we can walk freely once we get inside?'

'Naturally.'

'And this is why we are entering through the boiler room's ventilation pipe?'

'Again, no person could enter through such a small gap. It's not protected.'

'Forget a person, I'm now a cat and I'm not sure I can squeeze through there!'

'Too much tuna?' he whips his tail. 'You'll have too - unless you want to wait outside?'

'First one in gets to finish the tuna!' I challenge. Then I freeze. 'It's not cat food's canned tuna, is it?'

He actually frowns, which sways all his whiskers at once. 'Not fancy enough for you? Today you are a cat, John. A hungry cat, I might add.'

'Not that! Cats can't open tins, Sherlock.'

'Oh, that!' he opens his eyes wide. 'No, I've already done that. Before we transformed. And I tried it too. It's not half as bad as I thought, even for a human.'

'You ate... cat food', I stutter. 'Sherlock, that's... !'

'Thorough?' he completes, guessing innocently. I sigh, drained of all words. 'A logical well-founded scientific procedure?' he tries again. I open my mouth, but only a yawn comes out. _Forget hungry, I'm sleepy, I need a nap._ In front of me, Sherlock the cat snaps: 'I did it for you, John, okay? If it was just me I wouldn't have cared about food, it's nothing mote than fuel for my body. I was trying to find something that was okay for you in your present condition!'

I blink. _That was very nice, Sherlock._ I turn away at once, sneaking through the vent to the boiler room, hiding away. Still, I'm quite sure Sherlock could hear a bit of my purring in the quiet building's silence.

Soon, we're both standing by the vault's solid steel door - that we can't open - and the secret passage's panel concealed in the wall beside it. All of it sounded like a good plan, but now I'm starting to doubt how we're actually going to stop the theft from happening.

By my side, Sherlock must have been observing me, for he answers my unspoken thoughts: 'We'll sound the silent alarms, John. Scotland Yard will do the rest.'

I yawn yet again. 'And meanwhile?'

Sherlock shrugs as much as a cat can. 'Want to play rock, paper, scissors?' he ventures with a smirk. I whisk my tail from side to side, impatiently.

'Shouldn't take long anyway', I try to convince myself.

A sharp pinch noise and something small rolls on the floor in front of us. Immediately I wag my tail and jump at it, grasping it with my front paws, and ready to bite it.

_What-am-I-doing?_

It was instinct. I glance at Sherlock. He's strangely immobile, eyes open wide. Another sharp noise and a second object rolls on the ground. Before I can chase it, it rolls past Sherlock's paw and he steps on it.

'Loose screws, John. The bank director is making his way in.' I hiss a little at the memory of the unpleasant man and his schemes. 'Come! We'll jump onto the table to reach the alarm. We need to call the Yard on our thief.'

Sherlock takes the lead onto the table at once, I follow suit. Sherlock never really likes to use furniture in the designers intended way, it's not even a far stretch from a cats usual behaviour.

At the top of the table, Sherlock rubs his head against the alarm button till he manages to press it.

'There, John, done it!'

_Too late to escape_, the secret passage on the wall is sliding open. I scrunch, shortening my legs, hairs on end, low growl reverberating all my small body. By my side, Sherlock is pretty much doing the same, giving in to feline instinct as well.

_No matter what, we'll protect each other._

'You! Where did you come from?' The bank manager and thief recognises Sherlock the cat from Baker Street at once. He looks around in suspicion, looking for humans to explain our presence. Finding none, he then looks back at us, calculating.

'I think Holmes was definitely in this crime scene. It has cat hairs all over it. Turns out you two were just what I needed to seal the deal.'

I hiss, before I can help it. He's coldly framing Sherlock Holmes. Not in front of John Watson...

This rendering of Captain Watson comes with nice claws and is not afraid to use them.

By my side, Sherlock nudges me with a warm nose, keeping me from starting a war. _I'm not that little, Sherlock. _I can still put up a fight, no matter the height and weight difference.

As I hesitate to follow Sherlock's request, he insists, directly: '_Just drop it, John._ It's hardly fair on _him_.'

I look at Sherlock, confused, before I again see him patiently grooming his long claws. _Fair on the thief, because he doesn't stand a chance against Sherlock the cat and John the cat._

This time I'm not even hiding my proud purr.

_**.**_

Scotland Yard came storming in, catching the director on the act if stealing the private boxes for gold, jewellery and cash. Sherlock and I opted to stand aside and let them go about their Cops and Robbers routine, waiting for a chance to evade the scene and go home.

_I'm still hungry and sleepy. _Being a cat is not easy.

_I bet Sherlock is as well._

'Here, kitty, kitty!'

I recognise Greg's voice, with a touch of softness, and it startles me. What is DI Lestrade doing at a scene of a bank robbery? I assume Sherlock's brother got him dragged into this. Being a Holmes, I doubt he gave Greg an explanation either.

The DI is calling Sherlock softly, as Sherlock quietly licks away one of his back paws, elegantly stretching it out, all the way to his toes to be more thorough. He's really intent on ignoring Greg with a cat-like superiority. _He's enjoying every second of it._

With a sigh I come in closer. 'Are you even going to tell him of our little temporary transformation, Sherlock?' I ask, under the cover of a cat's voice.

Sherlock stops, paw extended, and looks at me with those shinny angular eyes. 'Best not. He wouldn't believe us anyway.'

Sherlock's got a point. Don't want to see Sherlock resorting to turning Greg into a cat to prove the serum's effectiveness.

As I am minutely distracted, Greg swoops over me, and grabs me up from the floor in his arms. I hiss at once, he's already wrapping a sports towel around me to restrain my claws.

'You're a feisty one, kitty.'

_A little scared there, Greg?_ Before I can help myself I'm purring out of smug satisfaction, anticipating my daring escape. Greg completely misses the triumph in my purr, as he mutters: 'Well, you're a friendly chap after all, aren't you? What is a cute thing like you doing here?'

_I'm not cute, I'm a dangerous cat!_

_Wait –_ What?

I glance sharply at Sherlock. He better not be laughing inwardly about this cuteness-syndrome.

'Where's your home?' Greg continues his monologue. 'You've got no collar and no electronic chip in your ear.'

_Sherlock wouldn't have dared._

'How about your friend here? Does he have a home?'

In response to Greg's question, Sherlock flows through he floor in sinuous steps and comes over compliantly.

'Oh, you're obeying orders now?'

_No, Greg. Sherlock always does only what he wants. As a cat and as a human._

'Now, what am I doing with the two of you?'

_Please don't say Animal Shelter, please don't say Animal Shelter._

Sherlock the cat tilts his head, gaze interlocked with mine. 'Want to get out of here, John?'

'About time, Sherlock.'

In a sudden furious jump I'm off to the floor faster than the towel takes to fall down and we both take off in a dastardly race, as fast as our four legs can take us. We head to the front door in a perfect timing and sneak out just as it's closing shut behind some police officer.

Then it's off into London's back alleys, making our way into Baker Street.

_**.**_

DI Greg Lestrade drops by Baker Street the next morning, finding me and Sherlock sat by the kitchen table. I'm quietly buttering a toast, Sherlock is mostly ignoring food yet again as he turns the page on a newspaper. The headlines of "Bank robbery averted by the Yard" are well on display for Greg to see as he comes in.

'Morning, Sherlock! Hi, John, staying over the weekend?'

I smile, trying to hide a smirk about all that Greg will never know, and volunteer politely: 'Coffee, tea, Greg?'

'Yeah, some coffee would be nice. It's been an all-nighter again... You wouldn't have thought much of this case, Sherlock. Hardly a Three in your scale... John, you're having milk in your coffee? I thought you took it black.'

I glance down at my RAMC mug. Yeah, _cats and milk._ Must be some residual after-effect of the transformation. I'm just glad we transformed back fine during the night's sleep.

'Just this once. And you?'

'One sugar, please...'

I realise Greg is staring at me and halt my movements. 'Everything okay?'

'Yeah, fine, you remind me of—' He even looks over at Sherlock, in the same confused expression. 'You know what? Never mind! It makes no sense.'

Sherlock and I both smirk at the same time.

_**.**_


	68. Chapter 68

_A/N: Wrote this one quite a while ago, but never got around to posting it. -csf_

* * *

**_._**

Everybody gets sick. People are very accepting of the idea that even doctors get sick. Dealing with all those sick patients, after all. They also think we can get rid of the flu or a stomach bug faster than the average population, as if we had some sort of magical powers to get rid of diseases. After all, that's what we do for a living.

Other conditions however, don't have the same grace status. Such as the temporary anaemia my latest blood work results clearly showed, after I went donating blood again.

_I should have known._ The other day when Sherlock and I were running after a suspect, and he pushed Sherlock out of the way with a timely punch, I ended up running after the suspect alone – and he got away. I felt really old, as I leaned against a bin, trying to regulate my breath and feeling oddly lightheaded. Or yesterday, when after a double shift at the clinic ended, I fell asleep at my desk, inexplicably. I was really ashamed when Rose, the secretary from the front desk, came to wake me up to get me out of there so she could lock the place up.

I went home and tried to catch up on my sleep, not bothering with food or clothes. Much less with going upstairs to the bedroom. I caught up with my exhaustion on the sofa. For someone that lived of spring beds and improvised camping at the war, the sofa was a blessing with the makings of a five stars hotel.

I woke up this morning with Sherlock barging in on my flat – _since when does he have keys to the front door?__ Did he really just pickpocket my front door lock?_ – and heading straight to the coffee at the kitchen, making all sorts of noise – too much noise to conjure a simple cup of instant coffee – to rouse me from my slumber.

_He tends to avoid my army reflexes by not shaking me awake anymore._

_He had a huge bruise on his cheek for a week last time he tried doing that._

_I still feel guilty about it._

'That's very insightful, John!' he greets me awake joyfully. I rub my bleary eyes, confused. It's a bit too early to be put on by Sherlock Holmes.

'Wh-what?'

'You've saved four minutes forty seven seconds by sleeping with your day clothes on. Think of the time you can save if you adopt that procedure as common practise whenever we have a case on our hands!'

'Yeah, well, not planning to make a habit out of it, Sherlock.'

My friend frowns. 'I notice you're not asking me about the case, John. Do catch up!'

'I... What case?' I give in with a sigh. He hands me the coffee with the same jittery energy he's been showing all along.

'Lestrade is waiting for us outside, I'll fill you in on the police car. Come on, John!'

I glance at the window. _There's some gratuitous gossip for the neighbours; me, heading off in the back of a police car._ Well, who cares? I put the coffee down and get up at once.

Only I can't quite make it up. The world shifts sideways, or so it seems, for I'm grasping at straws when I try to hold onto the furniture before I fall on to the ground in this wobbly reality setting.

It's with a tight warm grasp that Sherlock holds me up, moments away from my collapse onto the floor.

'John?' he calls me, on a deeply concerned voice.

_I guess he didn't expect a failing soldier today._

I fake a stoic smile to let him know all is well, as I'm extending a hand to the coffee table. Maybe too much of an uncertain gesture because he doesn't let go even when I'm firmly attaching myself to the table.

'You are unwell, John.'

_You don't need to be a doctor to get that one right, Sherlock._ 'I'm fine. Must be a stomach bug.'

_Why did I just lie to my best friend?_

_Because I don't want him to perceive me this weak._

'John, you should stay and rest', he guides me back to the sofa.

_There you go, John. You're excess baggage when chasing criminals, you can't do a night of work, you can't even get up from the sofa on your own. What else did you expect?_

_You can't work with Sherlock, not like this. Not as long as THIS lasts._

'Well, I...' I know I need to give in. I'm in no condition to do this._ I need to phone Greg,_ he'll take my place as Sherlock's backup. I can't do it myself.

'John, you are indisposed, about to throw up all over me and yourself. I...'

'Yes, you should go, Sherlock', I agree. _Before I do throw up on you._

He glances out of the window, to the police car, to Greg. 'Why isn't he coming in? Can't he see something is wrong?'

'Four minutes forty seven seconds', I remind Sherlock. Greg assumes I'm still getting ready. He doesn't know my red blood cell count is low. Actually, Sherlock doesn't know that either. I'm calling it a stomach bug. Or was it flu?

_Well, I'm a doctor, I'll think of something._

'John, when was the last time you ate? How many hours did you sleep? Have you been drinking?'

Oh, great, now _he_ thinks _he's_ a doctor.

'I'm fine, Sherlock.'

'So you keep saying.' Clearly he doesn't believe me.

'Look, there's a case, Sherlock. Let me talk to Greg and he can help you.'

'You are a better shooter, John.'

'I'm not taking my gun.'

'And you know doctor things.'

'No one is sick there.'

'There is a corpse, though.'

'I can't heal it.'

'And it could be dangerous.'

I close my eyes, tired out by the conversation. 'That's why I can't go, Sherlock.'

'I trust you.'

'I don't.' I open my eyes straight at him, trying to make him understand what I can't say.

He opens his green tinged eyes wide.

'How long?' he asks in a whisper.

Since it started? I don't know, I've realised it only now, when the results came in. 'A week.' Maybe.

Sherlock shakes his head like a man whose blood has been drained out. He even holds his dark curls in his hands as he tries to steady himself. Suddenly I understand he's just misunderstood our conversation. _He thinks—_

'I'm not going anywhere, John. Not without you. And I won't let you go either. I—' His shaky voice is deeply firm, as he pronounces every syllable slightly out of breath.

I grab hold of my friend's cold hand in mine and make sure to end his misery, so apparent, so raw. 'I mean I've been anaemic for a week, a month at most. That's all. It's temporary, Sherlock.'

He closes his eyes for a couple of long seconds, a deep sigh escaping his lips. 'I may have misunderstood you', he admits partially. _Yeah, he sure did._ I smile, genuinely.

'Greg can take my place.' It's all about sorting things out temporarily, making sure Sherlock has a worthy backup. Someone who can take my place, maybe even help Baker Street's genius in new ways.

Sherlock just shakes his head. 'He's an idiot.'

'So am I, according to you.'

'Don't be like that, everybody is. Told you that before.'

'Well, this idiot needs a time off. I can't help you if I can fail you at any moment.'

'_Just drop it, John._ I'm not going anywhere without you. The cases will wait.'

'You wouldn't be able to go on without the cases. You say your brain rots.'

'And you listen too much, John.' I frown, confused. 'Greg won't give me cases if he knows you're not around.'

'Yes, he will, Sherlock.'

'No, he won't. He won't think it's safe.'

'And why would he think that?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'I don't intend to lie to him.'

'The Yard needs your help, isn't that what you always say?'

'They need to start to carry their own weight.'

'That's very nice and all, but... Greg is still waiting in a parked car outside.'

'Thinking about your neighbours again?' he smirks. 'I bet the old lady across the street is the first to gossip.'

No, arthritis. Her knee has been giving her trouble lately. 'My money is on the mother of three on the other side.'

'You're on, John', Sherlock says, settling in by my side on the sofa.

I smirk, feeling tired but happy.

.


	69. Chapter 69

_A/N: __Typing this, I realise it came out darker than I intended.__ Also, I don't really know where I'm going with this, but that's old news... -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'Okay, guys, all we need is to remain calm and wait for rescue.'

Greg Lestrade's voice is firm and clear, like an authority figure's well rehearsed job, as he voices a variation of the "don't panic" request that irks my nerves so much.

_No one is panicking here, Greg._ Although you, me and Sherlock all understand that we're in a tough spot. Locked by an audacious team of criminals in a boiler room of this empty services' building. It wouldn't be too bad if they hadn't tied us up to a long thick pipe running at ground level, and damaged the boiler before they left. The temperature has been irrevocably rising, slowly. I must say it started off giving a nice atmosphere to our captivity scene. But now I can sense both Sherlock and Greg getting affected by it.

I think I'm alright.

Endured many high temperatures for much longer when stationed abroad, in long missions and medical rescues under the desert's sun.

I know what it can do. Disorientation, weakness, all part of the basic dehydration process. I don't want to see my friends forced to go through it.

'How are we getting out of here, Sherlock?' I ask, in full confidence, for his answer.

He glances at me, blushed cheeks but no other outwardly sign of discomfort yet.

'Mycroft should be on his way, but I'm tempted to refrain from the familiar gathering by evading this place sooner... Lestrade, ETA on your team?'

Greg looks up, startled. He's sweaty and turning a bit pale. The heat is affecting him faster than any of us.

'Too long', he answers too honestly. 'I came solo to back you guys up, I didn't drag anyone else along.'

Greg might not have meant it as a criticism, but both Sherlock and I flinch inwardly. _Our fault._

'Before you ask me', I try breaking the awkwardness, 'I have no back up team at all. No big brother with the MI5, no Scotland Yard's division at my command.'

Sherlock clears his throat, directing my attention to him. _Hm?_

'Guys...' Greg starts, stern. 'What will happen if we stick around?'

_No one likes to be stuck in a death trap with a pessimist, Greg._

'Well', I start, trying to maintain a neutral tone, our bodies will start suffering the effects of dehydration, that will turn severe, then we'll lose consciousness, I suppose.'

'How high will that boiler get?' Greg insists.

Sherlock states scientifically: 'High enough in temperature and pressure to blow up this room and part of the building.'

'Oh.'

_Yeah._

'Meanwhile', I resume, 'help is on the way. The whole blowing-up thing will take a while and before that you two will both be missed. Someone will come for us.'

Again I notice Sherlock casually eyeing me. _My rescue team is already here – I know, Sherlock: I'm not alone._

'Is anyone else feeling hot?' Greg asks lamely, in an attempt of humour. I try to analyse him from this small distance that separates us. He looks in control, but his speech is getting slower, exhaustion from the excess body heat is taking over. His shirt is damp and now clinging to his shoulder frame, hair pasted against his temples. He has past his comfort zone a while ago. From now on it'll only get worse.

'Try to keep your mind off the situation, Greg', I advise, powerless.

I glance at Sherlock. He still maintains some of his composed look, but it's also slipping away fast. I can see him twitching his hands behind his back slightly, presumably trying to set himself free.

'Sherlock, you can save your strengths by going to your mind palace. It works as a sort of meditation exercise, slowing your body in order to speed your mind. I've noticed that before. When it gets... too hot... you need to go inside your mind, okay?'

_And I need to keep out of mine._ The brokenness of my words was punctuated by flashback images of war that I managed to push back.

_I need to control this._

Angrily, I throw my head back, eyes closed. As I expected the impact with the wall – not to meek either – sent pain jolting through my consciousness and startled me back to the present moment. I open my eyes sharply.

_I can't wander off. _No time for flashbacks.

'John?'

It's Sherlock's voice and I force my eyes to follow his direction, looking directly at him.

'Are you...' he starts and I clench my jaw, with a semi-glance at Greg. I suppose my desire for privacy is imprinted in my every feature.

I nod slightly as an answer to his aborted question. Couldn't lie to Sherlock. Not now. Especially if there's an off-chance I go off the deep end and believe I'm back at a theatre of war, under heavy fire and powerless by the amount of casualties, some I can save and some I need to let go off, and Sherlock suspects, he would understand, but if I start talking, and Greg is also here, and—

'_John!'_

I'm startled back at the harsh sound of my name being called by both Sherlock and Greg. It's the DI that tells me:

'You zoomed out a little there, mate. I asked you something and you didn't listen. Try to stick around, okay?'

I can see the genuine worry in his gaze. _This is all wrong. _I'm the doctor here, I should be comforting him.

'Almost', Sherlock tells me as if it was code for something that I'm not following. Then I get it. He's almost freed of the ropes that bind him here.

I smile, relieved, thankful, as the world is starting to sway around me. Spatial disorientation, mental confusion. I know the next step – a foreboding sense of doom – and it's not pretty for an ex-soldier.

And Greg, how is he? I turn my head slowly, only to find him quiet. Too quiet. He passed out, in his body's attempt to preserve enough energy to keep him alive and fighting the overheating. _This is not good._ I look back at Sherlock. He looks terrible. The man that is always so composed, so put together, cannot go past this. There's a drained suffering look on his features that will haunt me for the rest of my life – granted, that may not be long.

'I'm sorry... Sherlock', I mutter, despite the roughness of my voice. I needed to tell him that. I need to fight hard to ignore all sounds of war around me to continue: 'It was an... honour... Thanks.' There, I said it.

'John, hang in there!' he tells me, tensely. It brings up a giggle in me. Always the one with the last word, Sherlock.

The rush of hot air stuck inside me is too much. Just as I'm losing consciousness I feel someone confidently grasping my shoulders tight. That's a strange sensorial hallucination, but I'll take it over the other ones. My lips curl into an unbounded smile as it all turns dark.

_**.**_

I wake up, someone is holding my head between two cupped hands. It's a sweet kind gesture, as I'm half-propped half-sat against a brick wall and a rush of cold outside air is now making me shiver uncontrollably.

'John, look at me.'

Sounds like Sherlock and the blasting siren of an ambulance. Could it really be my friend?

'_We'll need you to let go of your friend now, Mr Holmes. You both need medical care.'_

'I'm fine', Sherlock snaps. 'I just got us all out of there. Doesn't it grant me some sort of wish or reward?' he insists angrily.

I feel like giggling, things around me are finally coming into focus. I can see my friend holding me, keeping me from sliding back to the ground, a relieved softness in his features.

'You saved us!' I realise.

'Don't act all that surprised, John. You are the one who insists I'm a hero.' He frowns in distaste of the idea of being a hero.

'Yeah, you are', I tell him calmly.

'John, I'm not a _hero_—'

I cut him short: 'And Greg, how is he?'

'Better. Seating and talking, making a full recovery.'

I smile, exhausted, closing my eyes for a couple of seconds. I feel Sherlock's grip tightening, he doesn't want to let go. I face my friend again through bleary eyes.

'You held on longer than any of us, Sherlock.'

'Mind palace, like you said. We both knew it'd work. I could separate myself from my body while still working at the ropes behind me, saving my strengths.'

'Why didn't you go there sooner?' _Go there? Evade? Regress? What should I call it?_

'As I was trying to enter the realms of my mind, you were desperately trying to exit yours... John, I think we need to build you a mind palace. A ruled, ordered one, not that messy—hm—' My friend realises what he's saying, maybe reading the shock in my expression. 'I didn't mean...' he backtracks.

'Yeah, you did', I cut him off, raising my chin, stoically ready for any blows he wants to throw at me.

'John, I'm only trying to help.'

Help my feeble fragile mind? Yeah, I get that. Bring it on.

'_Just drop it, John._ If there were heroes, you'd be one. So, will you let me help you?'

I'm left blinking, confused. Is he for real? Why would he say—?

'Yes, I'll take your help.'

'Fine, we'll start at Baker Street tomorrow.'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	70. Chapter 70

_A/N: __Some stories start somewhere and then evolve into something else entirely. This was the case. Maybe it's just been lurching in the background without my knowledge, I wouldn't know.__ -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'How old were you when you started building your own mind palace, Sherlock?'

'Seven.'

_Wow._ Baker Street's genius and misanthropic detective is busy building a comfortable space of sofa cushions and pillows on top of the living room's red carpet.

'And you want me to build one in adulthood', I gather.

'Yes.'

'Can you see the trouble with that?' I turn sarcastic. He ignores my comment completely, stepping back and analysing the two piles of pillows and cushions facing each other. For good measure he adds nearby the chequered blanket as he goes dim the natural light filtering in through the windows.

'Sherlock, are you doing this because you saw me nearing a PTSD-induced flashback?' I ask, straightening my posture, tightening my jaw.

'Yes', he says again. Then glancing at me he senses he needs to add: 'You were in dire circumstances, we almost died, it was only natural... What I want is to make sure it never happens again.'

'The whole life endangered situation or the flashback?' I ask sharply, with a smirk.

He frowns. 'Both.'

'Sherlock, I don't need—' I start.

'Do you trust me?' he cuts me off.

_You know I do, you git._ I nod, silently. I hint of a smile comes to the self-proclaimed sociopath's lips.

'Then will you try this? _For me?_'

'I feel silly', I confess naturally. 'I won't be able to do it, Sherlock. I'm not _you_.'

'John, I have full confidence in your abilities. Now will you sit down?' I roll my eyes in mockery, but comply silently. If this is what he needs to do in order to deal on the aftermath of our almost deadly incident yesterday, I'll be here for him.

Besides, it's appealing, the idea that I could be a hint of a genius like him, having learnt some of his unique mental processes.

'It won't be easy', he warns me, as we both sit on the pillows.

_I keep telling you that, Sherlock._

'But it can be done', he seems to read my mind. 'Today we are going to make a good head start but it won't all be built yet. It takes time, John.' I nod.

'What do I need to do?' I ask, trying to get my breath slowed down, and closing my eyes.

'Trust is essential', he breathes quietly.

I nod. I told him I trust him and – god help me – I really do.

'Fine, now. Keep breathing slowly. Try to empty your mind from anything but the sound of my voice.

I smirk. 'Trying to hypnotise me?'

'No, that would be cheating', he answers with a smirk in his voice. 'John, please, you really need to let go for this.'

I open my eyes, tense. _Can't, Sherlock._ That's not who I am at the core. I'm not some yoga guru levitating in an ethereal cloud of smoke, I'm a soldier.

'Shhh', he asks me like an adult to a restless noisy kid. 'You've got an unruly mind, John. You need to restrain it a bit.'

I let my shoulders sag. _Sherlock, this is who I am._ 'Told you, I'm just a soldier.'

Something in my confession angers him and he snaps back, like I was selling myself short: 'No, John, you are so much more than that! Look, what do you normally do to calm yourself?'

'Tea', I answer mechanically.

'Tea', he repeats with a frown. Then, checking the validity of the statement, he arches his eyebrows. 'Stay there, and I'll make you a cup of tea.'

I giggle. This can be my new tactic to make him do me some tea every once in a while. 'Do you know how to make tea, Sherlock?' I sting my friend who's moving about in the kitchen.

'Yes, I've got a tea index', he answers to the letter. 'Black tea, green tea, herbal teas, butter tea...'

'_Butter?_' I frown, disgusted. Maybe his tea index is mixed up?

'Tibet', he says, as a hint of an explanation. Oh, when he was away, I understand. Anderson is convinced Sherlock went to Tibet and caught a criminal hiding in a monastery. I never got actual confirmation till now.

_He won't talk about those two years._

'Regular tea will do just fine for me.'

He nods, coming back, as we'll wait for the kettle to boil. He casually grabs the violin case in passage and asks: 'Do you mind if I...?'

I smile. _Not at all._ Reverentially he opens the case and takes out the violin and bow. As he's testing the strings for pitch one by one, he asks me: 'We'll need a structure for your palace, John. Could be a street or a map, but I find it works better with a familiar building. It's more... contained. You'll need to choose one. Can be small, we can always add divisions and extensions to it later.'

I look around, blank. Do I really need to choose one now?

A solid G keeps grounding me as Sherlock repeats it to detect minute off-pitch reverberations.

'Family home?' Sherlock suggests.

I shrug then shake my head.

'We moved a lot.'

'Med school?'

'Too many people. Can't even picture those hallways empty.'

'Army camp?'

'Kandahar? Helmand? Which one? None of them will keep my heart rate down, Sherlock.'

'Okay, then... Molly Hooper's morgue?'

I stare at him. _Is he serious?_

'Would work for me', he excuses himself grumpily.

'Maybe I shouldn't—' I start backtracking. He smiles maniacally.

'You've got a place', he accuses me. 'You know where your safe place is, but you won't tell me. Fine, if you want to be like that! You don't need to tell me... yet.'

What does he even mean? No, I don't have a... I mean, there's always... But, how silly is that? I don't really want to tell Sherlock Baker Street – his flat now – lowers my heart rate.

'Just picture yourself in that place, John.'

_That's kind of easy._

'Yeah.' I close my eyes. He goes back to that G note, slowly now.

'First, we'll need to build a core. Chose a division and place yourself in it. Feel it under your fingertips, smell the air, know that it's warm and cosy.'

_Yeah, it really is._ The core wouldn't be my old room. It'd be this cluttered fire-hazard-friendly living room.

I hear my friend taking a soft seat on the pillows in front of me, and the soft hiss of air they let out. He keeps dabbing softly that G note.

'When it's too much, this is where you come back, John.'

I nod, slowly. _I can do that._

'Now we need to pour some data and learn how to retrieve it. Can you go to another room?'

The kitchen? The bathroom? Certainly not Sherlock's room. Better stay close; kitchen.

There's another lone violin note filling the air now. It's an A. He's not checking the violin's pitch, he's leading me on!

_G – living room_

_A – kitchen_

This is becoming musical scrabble. I sigh and give in. Picturing myself walking to the kitchen – waiting for my tea, Sherlock! – taking it all in, from the small cluttered cabinets to the leaking tap at the sink, the chemistry paraphernalia at the table to the small incubator on the floor by the glass divider door. How come this is Sherlock's kitchen/laboratory and I'm using it for my palace?

'John.'

'Hm?' He caught me by surprise, there.

'I'm going to tell you six words and you're going to write them in pieces of paper and store them in there, wherever you are.'

'Okay.'

It doesn't take me long, under a constant beat of A notes.

'Now, what?'

'You're sweating, John.'

Yes, it has become really hot in here, while I was playing palaces in a virtual kitchen. _I didn't see it coming._

'Keep your eyes closed. I'm here, and you can trust me to stand ground. If something is bothering you, go to your safe ground, John.'

He stopped playing his violin and I'm left suddenly alone. The disappearance of that safety net threw me at a loss. I notice I'm shivering slightly. I can hear ammunition going off, and the smells of—

I open my eyes, tense, confused, feeling like I'm about to go sick. 221B is hot, too hot, and I realise it's the truth, because the fireplace is blazing behind me. 221B is not a safe place, not now. 221B is the real cause of my affliction.

I get up in one swift move and head upstairs to my old room, slamming the door behind me.

**_._**

'Didn't mean to trick you, John.'

_Yeah, you did._

'I moved too fast. My fault. I wanted to prove it to you that it worked.'

_Yeah, you sent me into a bloody flashback head first. Only I managed to avoid a meltdown in your living room by a mere inch. I've been weeding it out with breathing exercises on my old room's cold floor. After yesterday, it's as if I'm almost powerless to fight them off. It'll take time before I can gain some distance again._

'John, your tea is ready.'

_How dares he? Oh, I'm going to be sick again!_

'John, when you come back downstairs, we'll do it again. I'll be waiting.'

_I shake my head helplessly over my bent knees, as I'm sitting on the floor, sweaty, shaky, back against the door that separates us._

_I can't do it, Sherlock. I'm not you._

_There is no safe place, there is no core._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	71. Chapter 71

_A/N: __Still don't know where this is going. How silly of me.__ -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

There is a soft knocking on the bedroom door behind me, awakening me from my slumber. I'm feeling achy. Cold sweat is drenching my clothes. I may have passed out on the wooden floor in the end, because my shoulder – the good one – hurts like I've banged it against the floor. _So I did go full circle._ I had a flashback, fought it off at first but then, here in my room, it overwhelmed me until I passed out.

Still the soft rapping at the door is insisting on an answer. Must be Sherlock. Haven't a clue what time it is.

'Cut it out!' I plead, picking myself up from the floor over shaky hands.

'I've ordered take-out food, John.'

_No, no, no. Too soon._ Since when does Sherlock eat?

'John, I can hear you in there. Answering is optional but polite, you know?'

'I'm tired, Sherlock. I'm going to have some sleep, okay?'

One second of silent hesitation and he tells me: 'You don't live here anymore, John.'

I look at the naked bed in the empty room. Oh, yeah, he's right.

'John, you are disorientated.' _No shit._ 'I suspect you are unwell. I'll need to come in to check-up on you.' _No._ I stretch myself just enough to lock the door with the key and drag myself against the wall. Obviously, that doesn't ease Sherlock in the slightest.

'John, I can pickpocket this lock in two point three seconds, you know.'

'Don't you dare', I growl amid my headache.

'Good, angry is good, keep talking to me. I suspect I may have inadvertently triggered a flashback and I need you to stay with me, don't give up.'

I shake my head, with a sterile laugh. 'Been there, done that, Sherlock. You can go now.'

There's a stunned silence –he's finally got it – then the lock on the door is being furiously assaulted.

'I didn't give you permission, Sherlock.' I sigh. He storms in anyway and immediately finds me sat with my back against the wall, fragile but alert. 'John', he says my name slowly, meaningfully, not without some sorrow. 'What can I do?' he whispers, vulnerable. _He's at a loss._

'You've done right', I assure him, fighting to get up. He helps me at once like it's the most natural thing in the world. I look at him straight into his green tinged eyes and plead: 'Tomorrow we'll do it again, right?'

'John, I...' he hesitates.

'I need to fight this off. Can't do it without you.'

He finally nods, respectfully.

_**.**_

As I'm gathering my things to go to work at the clinic, I've got my head drowned in hope. I want to make _this_ work.

'I need a new safe location, Sherlock.'

Sherlock looks up from his laptop (for once it's really his, the one he's using) and frowns, not phased at all by the abrupt start to this conversation.

'Why build another one? What happened to the first one?'

I fake a tight smile and fess up, as I grab my shoulder bag. 'It got hot.'

My friend frowns, then glances at the fireplace, and finally understands. He seems taken aback by the notion that I chose Baker Street as a safe place. Sometimes he underestimates the impact he and this place had on my life.

'My bad', he tells me, trying to keep his voice collected, shreds of emotion barely concealed. 'I should have insisted on knowing your safe place. I wouldn't have overlapped it with external sensorial inputs had I known.'

_Go on, make fun of me already. My safe place is your living room. _I'm an easy target.

'This is your home too, John', he recalls, in response to what he's seen in my expression. 'Your mug in the kitchen', he points out to detail his reasoning, 'your chair, your medical text books on the left-hand side of the shelves...'

I assure at once: 'Told you, you can keep them as long as you like, Sherlock. You know as much of human anatomy as I do.'

'John, if you really want to do this...'

'...I do...'

'...Then you may need to let me in deeper in your mind palace.'

'It's not a palace, it's Baker Street.'

'Sorry – I don't follow?' he smirks and so do I. Baker Street is better than a real palace, for us.

'Fine, when I finish come back from work, I'll submit to your exercises.'

He nods, quietly. 'I'll be here', he promises, like it's nothing much.

_Only it is._

_**.**_

A long string of routine consultations at the surgery has been winding me down. Sure all patients are different, but the fact that there's a general rule or expectation that all diagnoses are methodical, attainable, text-book based, is somewhat comforting for me today.

As I'm showing an elderly patient out of my surgery's office, there's a fast gliding shadow slipping inside, just behind me. I turn around, in alertness, only to recognise the familiar lines of my crazy friend. Sherlock's already taking a seat in the patient's chair, waiting for my return.

'Sherlock, you are not actually sick.' I remind him, coming back after shutting the door.

'Kidney failure', he says.

'What, you—!' I react at once, confused, startled and surprised in equal parts.

'Not me, your last patient, the old man. Have you forgotten your patient already?' he mocks my momentary concern. He may even be mocking my overall concern for patients. _It won't be my concern healing them, he keeps telling me._ Can't help it, though. We both care too much. I work long hours and he forces himself to disconnect of all these little deductions – so immediate for him –that would make a great practitioner, but would drain him entirely before the end of the day.

'What are you doing here, Sherlock? I'm working, I've got patients.' I remind him, taking a seat in the doctor's chair.

'I'm your next patient. Not literally, as we've already established.'

'So...?' _Still waiting, here._

'Mind palace, John. Yours, not mine, once again. Before more confusion can arise.'

'Not the time or the place, Sherlock.' I shake my head.

'That's the point', he tells me, as he reaches for my stethoscope to – apparently – play with it, balancing the rubber tube in an outstretched index finger in front of him. 'You need to be able to retreat into your mind palace wherever and whenever, John. That means that going through your exercises in uncustomary places will be beneficial.'

'Sherlock, you're not seriously thinking—'

'You can lock the door if you prefer', he insists.

'No, I can't. The door won't even lock. There are procedures in the NHS for—' I cut myself short, feeling drained, and rub the bridge of my nose for perchance of patience. 'I'm naïve enough to trust you not to trick me again, Sherlock. I don't want another flashback. No more over-the-counter exposure therapy. I just want to build a half-efficient copy of your bloody palace.'

'Yours will be so much better than mine. Go on!' he leads me on. Again, just a touch too enthusiastic, and I feel there is some latent manipulation going on. _That won't help me place all my trust in these exercises, Sherlock._

'Close your eyes, John', he ignores my hesitance, 'and go back to Baker Street.'

With a sigh, I give in. Can't be worse than the time Sarah found me asleep at my desk, can it?

Before I know it, there's a soft smile teasing its way into my face. No matter the recent events, Baker Street is still the closest thing I've ever had to a meaningful home.

'That's it, John. Feel it. Breathe it in. _Stay there._ Can you go retrieve the words we planted there the last time?' I nod compliantly. 'Where did you put them?' he inquires in a simple whisper.

'Kitchen.'

'Oh', his voice is soft with appreciation. 'Gather them and take them back to your safe zone... And watch out for the creaking step.'

I know he's trying to help me along the visualisation, but there is no step. I shake my head, slowly. 'Living room, Sherlock. It's the living room. I have the pieces of paper but they are as good as blank. I forgot what I had written on them already.'

'No, it's still there', he insists, always with the same softness. 'Imagine me there with you, I'll read them to you.'

'What?' I open my eyes wide. Sherlock is sitting on the chair, surprisingly patient and quiet, stethoscope set aside. 'You've got _people_ in your mind palace?'

He admits reluctantly: 'Sometimes... Rarely... On occasion.'

'Fine.' I close my eyes. 'You are welcomed into my mind.' I'd swear I hear him bite back a giggle. It's okay, because I'm doing the same.

'I appreciate your permission', he tells me respectfully. 'What am I seeing? Did you change 221B in any way?'

'Maybe it's a bit less dusty, that's all. Wouldn't be 221B if I changed it.'

He hums, in what I assume to be acquiescence with me. We have that in common. Baker Street might not be his palace, for it predates it, but it's a connection to a safe ground to the both of us.

'You're here. What now, Sherlock?... Sherlock?'

'Shhh, I'm there. I know what to do.'

_When doesn't he?_, I take notice of the smugness in his voice. I try harder to concentrate. Breathing in the room, picturing the pieces of paper in my hand, my armchair's texture where I'm wresting my other hand.

_Invisible ink._

I frown to the spectre over my shoulder, looking attentively at the paper.

_I wouldn't have used kid's spy ink, Sherlock._

_Heat should bring it through._

_Fine, your go._

The imaginary kettle is warm. My 221B always has some tea brewing. I press the papers against the warm surface and wait. Slowly, lettering is becoming more apparent.

_I can read every one of them. _

I open my eyes to my teacher and friend. He's smiling in confident victory as I dictate all of the disconnected words.

'I dare say you've caught the hang of it, John.' Then he ponders with a shrug: 'In a slightly unruly way, but that can still be perfected. Good job!' he adds, getting up from the visitor's chair. 'See you later, John!'

In a flurry of energetic moves he's out the door and I'm left behind, stunned.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	72. Chapter 72

_A/N: Apologies for an unintended delay. Real life's events got in the way. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Tedious jam-packed Tube ride, and I found myself evading to this skeleton construction of a mind palace. I wanted to build upon the basics Sherlock and I had laid down, but ended up lost in my own thoughts.

Sherlock helped me build up my palace. Never in my life I would have thought it possible. Sure it's borderline empty and inefficient right now, for there is no function to it at the moment, other than a daydream stroll over collected memories. No matter how rudimentary, it's in itself a proof than Sherlock cared enough to teach me, that he believes I can use it and make a difference. He's the genius. I want to believe a genius is always right about these things.

I find it hard to focus on these exercises – been adding new data and trying to retrieve it at random times – not in the least because I'm physically drained. That flashback I had in my room (that threw me back into a war scenario, under heavy fire) took quite a toll in my body. Achy tired muscles, stiff joints, low-level permanent headache. I know these after-effects are benign. It's the psychological imprint of the lack of control that gets to me. That I would return to _this_, in an unpredictable way, only shines a light on the fragility of who I am as a whole.

This time I'm not nearly as alone. Sherlock has been an incredible and solid presence throughout. And even if my old therapist would doubt these non-professional exercises, they are a small goal that keeps me steady.

Sherlock's help as been as priceless as ever.

Greg is in the back of my mind now. I feel that Sherlock and I have left him out in a way. Not that I want to share all this with Greg. I'd be happier if I could keep him in the dark as much as possible. Greg is an amazing friend I trust and respect, but if I have a choice I'd rather limit the number of connoisseurs and spectators. _The choice might not be within my reach in the end._

I've decided to pay Greg a visit. Maybe ask him if the Yard managed to catch hold of the team that captured us in that boiler room.

I've exited the Tube at the station closest to the Yard. As I'm walking blindly along the street, half of my mind already at my virtual 221B, I hardly pay attention to the people veering away from me in the last second, there's even a delayed perception of car tires screeching the tarmac after I crossed the street.

Therefore it takes me a minute too long to realise, with a startle, that I'm being followed. As I stop and turn around to have a look at my stalker (not Sherlock, is it?, it usually would be) a brief movement is concealed behind me. Sherlock would never do that to the man that lived in a warzone. I tense up and twirl with a damned good punch, but it's too late. It's one against two now and I'm struggling through the fight. Other people on the street – a mother with two little kids – are backing away, she's reaching for her phone to call 999. I know she's not the target, but I sense the man I punched is taking notice of her and I know I need to stop this man; this killer that almost killed me, and Greg and Sherlock, before he can go after more innocent victims. I know I'm throwing away my chances as I go for that man and ignore the second one. I know this won't end well. All I care is to keep her and the children safe. _I'm just a washed-up soldier._

As I grab hold of the man ahead of me, a strong whack on my head lights all sorts of Christmas lights around me, just before I feel myself falling to the ground. I never get to feel the hard impact on the concrete.

_**.**_

_This is all wrong._ Looks like Baker Street, but there is a strange burnt smell to it. My gaze follows directly to the fireplace. Its ashes are cold and sterile. Then the kitchen. Sherlock's chemistry set is still laid out on the table, untouched. No smoke in the air either, but something is making me cough, irritating my throat. Last time I felt this I was trapped inside a bonfire, not in the safety of 221B. _This won't add up._

_Unless I'm in the wrong place._

Am I in the palace as a surviving mechanism? Is my physical body in grave danger and slowly suffocating with fire fumes, leading to this vivid hallucination of 221B?

I open my eyes wide and the smoke all around me is lead grey and thick, making my eyes water at once. _This is reality, and it's not as pleasant._

Trying to get up from the floor where I was half-sat, half-slumped, I realise I'm securely restricted by ropes that keep me here. _Where, I have no idea._ Looks like an old abandoned construction site from the shapes I can discern through the smoke curtain.

A good part of me is happy and relieved that this time I'm alone. _I'm messed up in that way._ I rather be thick or selfless, and suffocating alone in an unknown place, than heating up too fast in a boiler room with two of the best people I've ever met.

Although, without Sherlock, I'm not sure I can make it out of here alive.

'Help!' I scream out, like I should have been doing from the start. All I hear is the crackling of the flames over the wood frame, no human response at all.

_Sherlock, I kind of needed you here, right now. Time to be the hero you love denying that you are..._

Maybe I still have a shot if I get second best. A ghost-like imprint of the real Sherlock. I can conjure such a mirrored image of my old friend in my palace. _Even if just to say goodbye._

No, I will not give up. If I was to give up, who would make sure Sherlock – the real one – was safe from harm from these audacious criminals? They came for us, because we were the witnesses to their crimes. This time, they will come for each one of us separately. Greg and Sherlock are next. _Not if I stop them. And I will stop them. This is my resolute decision. Now I'll figure out how._

'Sherlock?'

I know it sounds as if I'm speaking alone. I've no time for social embarassement. 'Sherlock, where are you? Don't be lazy!'

I'm coughing away and in the end maybe it's the chemical smoke from the burnt construction materials that helps me hallucinate a reply in my palace. A well known voice, marred with worry, calls back my name in 221B. I smile, relieved, under the heavy smoke's cover. 'Sherlock, sorry, quick question: how do I get out of a burning building?'

_Oh._

_I've got a plan._

I scout over to the hottest part of this empty room, where the ceiling beam as begun to burn through and smaller portions of incandescent wood have fallen to the ground. Fire burns through rope, if I can just direct it to my wrists without keeping it too close. Forget the pain response, surpass the primal instinct of fear. Sherlock would have this as a good solution, therefore I'm sticking through to the very end.

As the ropes behind my back snap there is a loud yell through the collapsing building.

'_John!'_

I think I'm taking this whole hallucination thing a bit too far now. That _really_ sounded like Sherlock.

'John!' it repeats itself in a different voice, equally familiar. Lestrade.

What are they doing here? Are they trapped? I can get them out.

'John, answer us!'

They sound closer now, so: not trapped. _They came into a burning building to save my life._

_Good friends through thick and thin._

In uncertain steps I walk towards them. Good thing they came, too, for I'm not sure that after my small success (feels more like it's Sherlock's success) I could still drag myself out. With their help, I'm going to be okay.

I reach the next room holding myself up by hanging on as tightly as I can to the door frame. Finally I can see their shapes through the smoke. 'Sherlock! Greg!' my shouts bring on a desperate coughing fit that brings me to my knees. Immediately I feel strong confident hands reaching to me and wrapping under my armpits, holding me steady.

'Got him!' Sherlock states in a clear directive. A second pair of hands reaches out to me and helps me up to my unsteady feet.

'Almost out of here', Greg promises vaguely, as they both drag me along with them to the fresh clean outside air.

_**.**_

The paramedics have trust me with the oxymetre in the pressurised tank after all three of us assured them I'm a proper doctor. That meant a bit of privacy as the three of us gang up by the back of an open ambulance at the scene. Behind us, the firemen are tackling the burning building.

'My men caught them, as they were exiting the scene', Greg recounts quietly. 'Sherlock called us in. He found evidence of your forceful abduction and deduced this location from their previous crimes. We came as soon as possible. Luckily you answered us and were already making your way out of _there_.' He actually points respectfully at the burning hell we left behind. 'That was a lot of cool collected work, John.'

I glance at Sherlock, not surprised to see he's studying me closely.

'Detective Inspector?' someone calls from afar. Greg hesitates but with a confidant look at Sherlock's protective attitude he accepts to part himself from us briefly.

As I'm seeing Greg walk off, I mutter secretively to Sherlock: 'I didn't have a flashback. Imminent danger and panic, high temperatures, stuffy atmosphere, plenty of triggers to chose from. Maybe it was the high adrenaline situation, I don't know. But it didn't even cross my mind.' He hums, as a thankful appreciative. 'Maybe it's all over... for now. Till next time it starts again. I can never really get away from it.' Sherlock hums reservedly again. 'The palace, however, was quite useful. It kept me grounded and focused.' Sherlock finally displays further emotion, arching his brows in an inquiring manner. 'Sherlock, this has never been about the palace, has it?' I frown softly. He hesitates honestly, then glances at me like a kid caught in mischief.

'Well, it's been my long belief that everyone should have one', he tries to divert my attention, in a scholar-like speech.

'You were giving me something else to focus, to hang onto, when I was at my lowest. Also, it was the perfect excuse to keep checking up on me. Because you said the exercises needed to be done at all hours and places.'

Sherlock nods slightly in the only hint of confession he'll ever allow me. 'So... _you knew, John_.'

I nod quietly. 'Doesn't mean I didn't appreciate it as much, or even more.'

'There was also a multitasking element involved, as you'll appreciate on my blog's next post, about memory techniques, John.'

I smile. 'You should know I really gave it a try. But my palace never worked for me the way yours did for you.'

'It might work as a true repository of information and data, John, given enough time... But it's not what you need from a mind palace. I thought you had an unruly mind. Turns out it suits you', he admits at last. 'Your thought process is often scattered, free, and I shouldn't ask you to tame it. This is who you are, this is why you are a conductor of light, a non-linear thinker. Alone you don't reach far, but you can help me to solve our cases.'

_Did he just say Our cases?_

'I see', I agree softly. 'Maybe that's why I'm not the genius out of the two of us.'

He smiles briefly, before picking up an orange blanket from the ambulance shelves. 'I wouldn't quite say that. I've got about a wing's worth of data you have given me and it has served me quite well.'

I frown. Like _what? The rules for playing Cluedo? _In the end I opt to not ask. Allow him his little ambiguities. I'll keep secret about aspects of my palace as well.

_**.**_


	73. Chapter 73

_A/N: The kids sequence I did around Christmas got me very far out of my comfort zone (do I really have one?) and I shouldn't even get started about the cats! Some people wanted me never to return to the kids storyline again, others loved its innocence. Amid this lack of consensus, I'm left to my own devices. So here's a hard one: kid-Sherlock, adult-John. There are many personal reasons why I may miss the mark on this one, but I'll be trying my best._

_For those who are not into it: Looks like three chapters. Avoid me. Cheers. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part One .**_

After a long working day there's only one more thing on my To Do list. Go by Baker Street. Sherlock asked me over, keen on keeping his reasons a mystery. I told him about my double shift at the Clinic, that would delay me inevitably, but I don't think he even listened anymore. He would end the call briskly, impatiently. That was a good while ago.

As I make my way up the stairs to 221B I'm puzzled by the silence. 221B is hardly ever silent. Small explosions from chemical experiments, violin melodies drifting across the air or just Sherlock pacing up and down the living room's carpet stubbornly stringing together the leads in a case, there's always some activity going on.

The living room appears to be empty. Now I'm starting to feel uneasy. Has Sherlock grown tired of waiting for me and left solo on a dangerous case?

As I sigh and turn back to the stairs (maybe Mrs Hudson knows) I sense a small movement in the kitchen.

_Small_ being the keyword here.

After all these years, furtive noises still ring louder to me than all the regular ones. Being a soldier in a war zone does that to you. In a way, you lose your innocence entirely, becoming much more the hardened survival machine than your average doctor.

I look over at the kitchen, tightening my fists by my side. _No one gets to mess with 221B._ Who's around?

A five, or maybe six, years old Sherlock is staring back at me. I sigh deeper.

_It's amazing that I'm not even surprised. Not anymore. Not in Sherlock's Baker Street._

'What are you doing under the table, Sherlock?'

'I drank it.' His voice comes meeker, more vulnerable than his customary adult version of himself. He also has, I notice, this endearing little habit of – for lack of better words – clicking the Ks and popping the Ps. It's as if, ever since a child, he strives to be the best at everything. Even overdoing it sometimes.

He said he "drank it", I refocus. A million possibilities in that one. 'Drank what?'

'The serum.'

'Yeah. I guessed as much.'

'By mistake.'

'Oh...' Now that surprised me.

_**.**_

'Sherlock, what _happened_?' I ask, deeply concerned.

'I drank it', he insists valiantly, in between hiccups of sadness. His vulnerability is only too apparent, too raw, as a child. It takes a good effort not to be distressed myself.

'I can see _that_. I mean, what happened to make you _sad_?' I ask him carefully. I know that even as an adult Sherlock is not terribly good at dealing with feelings and emotions.

His light-coloured eyes grow wide, then he sniffs as he tries to pull himself together. Still he won't find his words. Before the wait can turn unpleasant I make a decision and crouch myself likewise, under the formica side table.

I didn't dare to dive by Sherlock's side. Don't want to further distress him. As adults we are both good friends, half-capable of reading each other's minds. But having me as the adult may not be to the child in Sherlock's liking. _Better not risk it._

We're now both hiding under tables in this cluttered kitchen at 221B, as if the only inhabitants on our own private islands. Sat precariously on the floor, facing each other. There's no more than an arm's length of distance between us.

_Oh, oh._ Sherlock is tilting his head to the side, studying me carefully. He looks very old, very serious, as he inspects his adult friend. Maybe I've already overdone this proximity thing. Maybe I should leave before he—

He smiles. I mirror it with joy and relief, and maybe even an awkward sense of pride, given that I was just accepted by this innocent child, more than that, by a Sherlock-child.

'I thought you'd be angry at me, John', he blurts out suddenly. Then, with a certain level of relief, he carries on in the same breath: 'You asked me not to do this again. Turning myself into a kid. Most of all, you asked me not to turn you into one as well. So I had to do it alone. This morning I took the serum. Only you weren't here. And you took a long time to come. And I sat there', he pointed almost accusingly to his empty chair in the living room, 'waiting for you to come in through the door. And you didn't come, John! So I started thinking and I really thought you wouldn't come, and...' He brushes his cheek with the memory of past tears. 'And then I heard you come in, but I thought you'd be angry, because you were taking forever to come upstairs, and I got scared — I'm never scared of you, John.' He shakes his head and curly dark hair. 'I don't know what happened. It was as if I was feeling guilty... So I decided to hide, because I didn't want you to see me like this. I wanted to wait till it was all over and I was all grown-up again. But then you found me.' He frowns heavily, before asking deviously: 'Maybe I should have hidden myself better, John?'

I smile. _No, Sherlock, I can never stay angry at you long. _'I really like your hideout, Sherlock.'

He looks relieved, happy even. 'I used to do that a lot when I was a kid. I mean, a real kid. Before.' I nod. _I know what you mean._ 'Want to share my table, John?'

I nod gently. _I'd be honoured, Sherlock._

Clumsy as only an adult, I drag myself half-crawling through the floor to his confined space. I'm surprised as I notice the underside of the table — our roof — all scribbled with chemical formulas in a child is handwriting. Genius or not, writing takes time and I'm sure I didn't take thislong to come upstairs. _It's not the first time Sherlock isolates himself as a child. Not the first time he takes the serum — not calling me._

_But why?_

I can recreate his restless spirit, so open and free, searching for solace and peace at a young age, only to understand there is a genius part of himself he can never really let go off.

_Oh, Sherlock._

Uncontained, an overpowering feeling of understanding makes me impulsively hug the small frame of my mad child friend. At first, he tenses in my arms, then he relaxes and gives in with an imperceptible sigh. _He trusts me._

'You can call me anytime, Sherlock.'

'Will you take care of me, John?'

It breaks my heart. _It may have not been whole to start with._

'If you want me to', I volunteer with an uncertain voice.

'Will you let me stay up all night, and play with liquid nitrogen, or light fire to the left-hand side of the curtains?'

I hug him tighter. 'Certainly not.' I realise I'm smiling knowledgeably. And so his he. Not for the first time he was testing me. He seems to enjoy the fact that I'm not about to treat him any different from the old Sherlock. _He enjoys my predictability._

One last important thing remains to be understood: 'Why did you transform yourself, Sherlock? Is it a case?' _Were you bored, restless, reckless?_

'Mycroft was being annoying', he responds sulkily about his big brother, refusing to explain himself further. I know there is more to it, as I know he won't tell me just yet.

_**.**_

'Why a child, Sherlock? And you said you drunk it by mistake' I start, as Sherlock and I leave our hideouts to return to regular 221B.

He nods. 'Did I?' he then slowly, deliberately, contradicts himself.

I frown. 'Did you mean it for me? Sherlock, did you put it on a mug for me and then forgot and drunk it yourself?'

He shakes his head, stubbornly. 'You said I wasn't to do that again.'

'Since when do you listen to what I say?' I ask hurtfully.

'I have some people's gibberish in semi-permanent mute, I translate my brother's annoyance to mandarin to make it more endurable, and I overall ignore Lestrade's team's useless inputs. I always listen to you, John, don't – make – me – regret – it!'And with a dramatic huff he sits down on the sofa, arms crossed, pouty face.

I fight back a smile, it would hardly help. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock', I tell him, in what I already know will be the first of many times to come. _I'm new to this parenting business._ Sitting on the sofa as well, I ask: 'Why a mistake, then?'

'I changed my plan. We have a criminal to catch. I know who he is and all I need is proof. But I was thirsty. My stupid body betrayed me. Needed hydration. My mind was engaged in the correct deductive process so I reached for the mug. I forgot about the serum.'

'Oh.'

'I don't want the _bad guy_ to get away, John.'

'Maybe you can tell Mycroft and he'll do something about it.'

'Don't want to talk to my brother anymore, he said he wouldn't help me. He didn't want to waste time in a small criminal. He's _too busy_ protecting the Commonwealth.' Sherlock huffs and crosses his arms in front of him.

I smirk. I'd assume Mycroft got miffed Sherlock smuggled some of this sci-fi serum under his watch and refused to do this for Sherlock for payback. Commonwealth be damned.

'Then tell me, and I'll take care of it for you.' Isn't it my job, as the adult, to make things right?

He shakes his head responsibly. 'It's dangerous.'

I smirk wider. Perhaps even a bit too enthusiastic. 'Never stopped me before.'

'This time I'd be limited in the help I could provide.'

'I never turned my back on risks or danger, Sherlock. And if it was enough to make you so distracted you ended up as a child, then I need to do my part, right? You know you can trust me.'

Finally he nods. 'Tonight we need to break into a private residence and substitute the poison he intends to use at a gala event tomorrow by my own solution, thus preventing a murder.'

'That won't catch the potential murderer, Sherlock.'

'It will when we trace the minute radiation markers I placed in the solution to both the victim and criminal, metaphorically interlocking them.'

'I'm not sure that's ethically correct, though, without the potential victim's consent...' I start, in reservation. Honestly, I've seen adult Sherlock doing far worse.

Child Sherlock, however, dismissed the idea with a very grown-up free wave of the hand and negotiates one-sidedly: 'I'll make sure I throw some vitamin C into the mixture, John, don't be so worried!'

_No, Sherlock hasn't changed a thing._

_**.**_

'Sherlock, you need to eat some food', I tell him calmly, as I see him packing up his fake-poison solution in a small glass vial. The mini-scientist turns around as if startled by my presence there, so absorbed he was in his dual purpose - life saving and criminal identification - task.

Immediately I see in his expression that he resents me for my intrusion. As if me insisting on going against his body's instinct was in some way betraying his trust. What else am I supposed to do? I'm the only adult in this room, to all appearances.

'Don't be boring, John', he snaps, just like his older self would.

I sigh. How can I turn this around?

'There's an ice-cream in it for you if you eat all your dinner, Sherlock', I try to negotiate.

He despises at once: 'Won't be very iced if you kept it on the freezer, John. I unplugged it, this morning. I'm studying the rate of decomposition on body parts Molly has supplied me, to simulate the murder in that frozen foods warehouse in Manchester.

I sigh. Should have guessed it. Cross-contamination and all, I don't really want to his the answer... 'But you took the food out first, right?'

He frowns, as if he never thought about that.

'Why?' he genuinely wonders. 'It won't affect my experiment', he points out in all honesty. That's a No, then.

'We'll make ice-cream and freeze it with liquid nitrogen, then', I volunteer.

Suddenly Sherlock's eyes are shining brightly as if we just solved a case. Sherlock has always had a sweet tooth and a taste for wacky science.

'Really? You're not... tricking me?' He squints at me.

The vulnerability in his words saddens me. I chose to tell him the obvious: 'I won't lie to you, Sherlock. Especially not now. Can you believe me? Can you trust me?'

He nods seriously. Again I feel touched by the quiet trust he places in me. I'm so overwhelmed by this notion that I turn my face away, blushing.

I notice in the back of my mind that he's still studying me. _I'm not any different now from the same John you've known. If you trusted me before, when you were in full control, can you find it in you the strength to trust me now?_

_Am I, a former soldier with a stiff demeanour, this scared of a child?_

'I trust you, John', I hear Sherlock say in his quiet, overly pronounced voice. I look back at him, before I check myself and clear my face of all traces of surprise, squirm in my seat to change position and state reverentially: 'Thanks, Sherlock.'

'I don't trust me', he adds, cryptically. I frown, in confusion.

'Sherlock?'

But he chooses to keep his secrets. For a moment I suspect he wants to keep his pose, his dignified genius act. He doesn't need to. I'll always admire him, no matter what.

_It's like he's intent on impressing me._

But why? As a child, Sherlock is quite the little rebel. That my opinion matters to him is too odd as an idea for me to conceive.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	74. Chapter 74

_A/N: __Still not British or a writer.  
__Still better ones out there,  
__but this is mine._

_Ps: Didn't mean to, this scene just popped up. That is to say, this may run a bit longer than originally planned. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part T**__**wo**__** .**_

'You need to sleep, Sherlock. You are not staying up till I come back from my life-saving crime spree. That is out of the question. Think I mind your business too much when you are an adult? Well, now I mind it even more. You need to give your body proper rest', I lecture on, fully winded, wondering how in the world I got here, to this imposed parenting position that I now know - I have no vocation for. It's tiresome to keep repeating myself to no avail, and as a child, Sherlock is even more transparent in his contemptuous expressions towards the quality of my meddling. Less of the comical exaggeration of "you don't boss me around" and much more of the "you are wholly unqualified to understand me" undertones. _He's five going on thirteen, a rebel by choice._ 'Fine', I sigh, 'have it your way...'

All of a sudden, a very young Sherlock is shocked still as he looks at me. As if he didn't expect to hear me say that. _I just said... Oh._ He thinks I gave up. No, I'm not doing that, this is too important. _I'm not giving up, Sherlock._

_But I will do it your way._

I rub the back of my neck to ease the tension. 'We can play a game or watch a movie for another hour, but then you'll have to go to bed and _really_ try to sleep, Sherlock. Can we make a deal?'

My young friend rolls his eyes, but reluctantly gives in. 'I choose the movie', he determines, in order to have the last word. _Knew that already._

'Naturally.'

'And it won't be a kid's movie.'

'I hope not.'

'Horror? Sci-fi?'

I shrug. Fine by me.

_**.**_

Zombies took over the world for two hours, forty-five minutes, maybe even double that (there was a sequel available). I wouldn't know. Exhausted, I fell asleep, sat on the sofa, before the end of the first hour. Strangely enough, a young restless Sherlock didn't try to wake me up. In fact, I could have slept all night long on the uncomfortable position in the sofa.

I've just woken up, with a deep shiver, from some lazy half-masterminded nightmare, to find a relaxed sleepy Sherlock leaning over, against me, and my arms wrapped confidently around his small frame. A glance to my wristwatch tells me it's still too early, hardly past ten o'clock in the night.

I can't help but smile down on Sherlock, nestling warmly against me. It's the sort of thing he'd give me hell for. Tell me it serves no actual purpose. But it seemed to come naturally to both of us. I push the light blanket over Sherlock's shoulders to keep him warm and let my head sag back against the sofa again. Just ten more minutes.

I must have fallen back to sleep – my mistake, should have got up at once at the first signs of nightmares – for when I return back to consciousness abruptly I'm tensing up, backing away from the sofa, leaning forward in a frozen fight or flight reaction. Instinct would have it that I'd wrap Sherlock in my arms for safety, or he'd be tossed powerless to the ground by the forcibility of my action.

He's looking straight at me, dazed, confused – quiet.

I sigh as a tremor shakes me from head to toe, letting out a long breath of silent wordings. I'm half-broken, utterly ashamed.

'John, are you alright?' the child in my arms asks cautiously.

I fake my best smile, trying to reassure him.

'John, your heart rate went up over 40% and you're hyperventilating, which demonstrates that you aren't breathing efficiently. Therefore, you are probably lightheaded and confused, but you insist on lying to me.'

'Not lying', I mutter, gathering myself. 'Wishful thinking, that's all.'

He scolds me with a very grown-uppish look. Then he softens his expression. 'I was sleeping against your hurt shoulder... Are you in pain?'

I shake my head.

He bites his lip, trying to restrain himself, before suddenly blurting out:

'Can I see it, John?'

_My shoulder, he means._

'Why do you want to see it, Sherlock?'

He presses his lips thin, demonstrating he's somewhat uncomfortable to report: 'I'm curious, John. As a child, I've been finding it harder to switch it off.'

'Switch off your curiosity?' I repeat. He nods.

'When it's inappropriate by the society's norms.'

I frown. I wouldn't say Inappropriate. It's a touchy subject and he's my friend. I nod at last. Holding on to one last shred of control, I demand: 'No talking, Sherlock. Can you do that for me? I can't do this if you—' _comment it._ I briskly look away. Can't voice my words without betraying the fragility in them.

'John?' he asks softly, big round eyes pleading into mine.

Damn it, I would do anything for Sherlock, and now it's no different.

With a small nod requesting patience, I unclasp the first few buttons on my chequered shirt. I strain the fabric aside, closing my eyes. Stoically exposing my messed-up shoulder.

I have no reaction from Sherlock. With a deep breath I open my eyes. He's staring me in the face, patiently demanding.

_This is not enough._ He feels tricked, like a kid who was promised a sweet and got a breath mint.

'Just drop it, John. Will you?'

Fine. _He's as demanding as ever._

In two seconds, I've opened my shirt, then removed it entirely, throwing it to the sofa. I sit down, with my hands resting on my lap, waiting for the end of this examination. Standing up in control, stern and quiet, looking at my shoulder from all angles – Sherlock is like a small version of my physical therapists back in the day.

I notice him frowning a bit more and that awakens me from my daze.

'What is it, Sherlock?'

'I seem to be having some difficulty recollecting human anatomy principles. It never happened to me before, John', he confesses, biting a hiccup.

The emotions of a five year old are clouding his reasoning.

I look at the anguish in his eyes and smile softly. _Maybe I have the solution._

I grab a thick colouring pen from the coffee table and uncap it. Orange will do.

_This better be as water-based as they promise._

Wouldn't have let five year old Sherlock loose in Baker Street with permanent non-washable markers.

I take the blunt tip and drag it along over my collarbone, tracing a line on my skin. I follow my confident medical hand's work on the mirror above the fireplace.

'Like x-rays!' Sherlock understands at once, with a bright smile. This will satisfy his thirst for knowledge.

'Well, I happen to be a doctor... Here are the ribs.' I'm getting stripy now. 'And around here is the scapula, although it's movable, of course...'

I realise Sherlock went silent, pondering the lines painted on the left side of my torso and those older unmistakable lines of my scar, forever present in so many ways.

I grab a pink pen. 'Heart.' I wouldn't have dared not to do a medically accurate but simplified drawing, with the aorta and ventricles. I even add red and blue arrows for the blood flow's direction.

He takes a yellow pen and asks me softly: 'Lungs?'

Why not? I breathe in, hold it, and outline the upper contours. As I expected, he gasps, taking it all in.

'You were—'

_Shhh_, I ask, softly. He nods, with a complicity look. But he won't stop himself from peeking at my back to spot the entrance scar, smaller and more contained. I know he's mapping the angle and damage. Finally he stills, facing me. He looks very serious, responsible, adult, in the body of a small child.

Maybe I shouldn't have shown him?

He nods quietly, reaching some sort of mysterious conclusion.

'You spoke in your sleep, John. During your nightmare', he adds. I suppose it's fair game. I asked him not to comment my scar. This is something else. A directly related subject, and yet apart.

'Did I?' I frown. 'Usually it's quiet.'

Sherlock tilts his head. He's not surprised, I notice. He already knew that.

I won't ask Sherlock what I said in my sleep. I already know all about it.

Grabbing back my shirt from the sofa, I break this little scientific spell that had united us. Sherlock won't protest. He too must have felt instinctively that it was over.

There is still some tension in the room and I make an executive decision: 'Ice-cream before I go out, Sherlock.'

He smiles. 'Liquid nitrogen?' he guesses, before giggling in actual delight. I guess that is a Yes. I guess I know how to speak _Sherlock_ after all.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	75. Chapter 75

_A/N:__ Sorry to take so long. Was in the blues when life showed me I have some sort of super-hero syndrome, where I'm there for others and people just seem to take advantage. Actually, it may well have affected the tone of this story (sorry)._

_Thank someone for me, for something nice they've done for you today, please!_

_Part three out of four. One more to turn this around. -csf_

_2nd A/N: Something had got cut off before. Apologies. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part Three .**_

'Normal kids go to the park you know, Sherlock. They don't go on past bedtime criminal sprees', I confess with a brief headshake as I unsuccessfully try to hail a cab in late night empty Baker Street.

'I've been to the park already, a couple of days ago. That triple murder', Sherlock reminds me, wisely.

I roll my eyes to the smirk in my young friend's voice.

'Not quite what I meant.' _And he knows it._

'More my kind of fun, though', he giggles excitedly. Before I know it, I'm softening my expression. 'Three murders, all apparently unrelated, except for the dumping location... That _was_ fun.'

'Yeah', I agree dubiously. _Mixed feelings on that one._

'Besides, you won't let me in on the fun tonight.' He arches his brow and imitates a particularly annoying lecturing tone of voice: 'You need to stay outside, Sherlock. I should never bring you along, Sherlock. It's not safe, Sherlock. If you got caught, they would find out your secret, Sherlock.'

'I'm glad you paid attention', I sting, smartly. He gives me the most extraordinary dirty look for an innocent looking kid.

I sigh. 'Sherlock, _please_.' What else can I say? I understand his restlessness, his need to cover and protect me even now that his body prevents him from great strides. His mind is still all there, the same old Sherlock, and he has a confident belief in his capacities to face danger and keep us safe. If I'm keeping him behind it's not because I don't trust him, not at all. It's because I remember the emotional turmoil of being suddenly five years old and I want to keep him from the worst.

With an amused smirk, Sherlock throws something at me. I catch it out of instinct, and look at him, puzzled.

'Car keys', he identifies the obvious with an eye roll. 'Rental. Good enough for tonight. And in case the catch us on private cctv coming in that vehicle, I've rented it under an alias.'

'That's thorough', I realise.

'I drank the serum by mistake, John. Told you that before. I already had a plan.'

I nod at last. 'But you were going to call me anyway?'

He hesitates, keeping his silence. I frown. His mysteriousness on this detail just won't add up.

_**.**_

Took me forever – it sure felt that way – to convince Sherlock to stay in the rental car, waiting for me. It took a clever mix of bribing and begging, in the end. He just can't see himself as the five year old I so clearly see before my eyes. Maybe because this transitory status is so recent, or perhaps he was always an overachiever for his age. _I'm starting to grasp how it must have been for Mycroft, as the older brother. Mycroft's protectiveness as become engraved in his every decision. Such as Sherlock's defiance of it._

One thing hasn't changed in his regressed state. No matter his current apparent age, Sherlock wanted wholeheartedly to face danger alongside me. I wish I could have him by my side as well. Miss him. The older version of my friend. Having a more straightforward, innocent Sherlock is like having a chance to understand one of the most inscrutable people ever, a chance that I cherish as a rare gift. Sherlock has kept himself apart from most people to hide his vulnerability. From the start, he didn't consider doing the same from me.

Now I'm letting him down somewhat, with my protection. _As if I don't trust him like this._

_I do trust him, no matter the age._

It's this protectiveness streak flared in me by seeing him so small that I can't go past.

_How could I ever forgive myself if he got hurt in this vulnerable state?_ Our adventurous Work is no place for a child.

Ten (consecutive) ice-creams and no sleep for 48 hours. In the end he got quite the bargain.

Anyway, he'll transform back to adulthood before the 48 sleepless hours are over. Little more than a day to go. Maybe less, if he runs himself too tired.

With a stubborn silent nod to no one in particular, I'm ready for this. I turn off the ignition and hand over the keys to Sherlock. 'In case of danger.'

He smirks. 'So I can't follow you around like it's "bring your kid to work day", but I'm allowed to drive off in a car, John? I will need to stretch to reach the pedals, you know?'

I flash him a brief smile. 'You'll figure it out. You're a genius.'

He nods in acquiescence.

Torn between solving the case (providing solace to my friend) and staying by his side (assuring his immediate wellbeing), I need to force myself to open the car door and exit.

The cold night air hits me like a harsh critique on my actions.

'Five minutes, Sherlock.' Choice made, I need to stick it through and make it count.

_**.**_

I came in through a ground floor window, breaking the latch and pulling it open. This is not my proudest moment, but Sherlock is convinced the owner of this house is a particularly vicious murderer and he needs to be stopped and brought to justice. I've got a replacement for his poison of choice. All I need to do is locate the favourite silver vial, pour its contents out, and fill it up with a vitamin-based energy drink.

_I rather hope my child friend has not felt tempted to take this energy drink himself to prove me that it's harmless. I wouldn't put it past him, though._

As I'm walking around an eerily silent darkened house, I locate this man's study, where Sherlock suspects he keeps the vial. I sneak in and immediately find the silver engraved pocket flask on display in a glass cabinet. Just the sort of place a vain murderer that believes himself superior to the Yard would keep his murder weapon.

_Not superior to the great five year old Sherlock, though._

I take the vial and pour out its contents to the fireplace before refilling it. As I'm placing it back my fingers gently brush past some other object, laid down close to the flask. Felt like fabric and cold metal put together. I know I need to leave, and Sherlock is waiting for me, but something deep inside me recognised that brushing touch. My fingers are drawn to the object and I hold it up to the light of a street lamp filtering in through the closest window.

It's an army medal. _What in the world—_

_This is why Sherlock was keen on keeping me at bay on this case. This is why he kept his little mysteries. Do I know this criminal? Have I trusted him on my unit? Why has Sherlock insisted on keeping this from me?_

I turn on my heels at the brisk sound of police sirens, the blue lights are already flashing through the window, tainting the colour of the medal on my hand.

_I've overstayed my welcome._

'John!'

I tried to run to the main door, but now it's too late. I hear Sherlock calling me, already from inside the house. He couldn't help himself, he needed to come to my aid. 'Sherlock!'

We're both in deep trouble, despite the fact that we've just saved the day. Doubtfully the vain murderer will suspect us from meddling with his poison. He'll go ahead and some important target Sherlock never really told me about (and I didn't ask) will be high on caffeine abuse. All I can do now, the only remaining power within my grasp, is to protect my young friend. _It's my promise._

I find a round eyed, terrified Sherlock, looking back at me with a trembling lower lip. I reach him and hug him in one swift motion.

'Why did you come in, Sherlock? You should have left.' I know it's useless now, but I needed to voice it out loud.

'You said five minutes, John', he tells me, in an effort to sound controlled.

_Didn't mean it literally..._ He took my promise of a fast return too heart. And I took too long.

'The poisoner was in the army, wasn't he? That's why you didn't want me here. This is big trouble for a retired army captain.'

He nods quietly, just before the police bursts in on us.

_**.**_

This is it. I'm being arrested for burglary. Worst even, to all appearances, I've brought along a child to my felony. This is the worst entry in my up-till-now pristine criminal record I could ever have. I was a Captain in Her Majesty's Royal Army Medical Core, for goodness' sake! Now I'm about the worst type of foster dad there could be.

_Well, I did get an ASBO on my second case with Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps I should have seen it coming..._

I smile meekly at the arresting officer. No way I could ever explain this. Even if he did believe the age-modifying serum, and even if he recognised Sherlock for who he is, it'd still be illegal.

'Can I just have a word with him before you take me in?' I request, about a scared-looking Sherlock.

The man hesitates, but gives in, not without a sad look over to Sherlock. _I know, I'm a lousy grown-up._

I lower myself to a scared Sherlock. With a soft hand over his shoulder I promise him calmly: 'It's okay, little guy. The detective inspector will take you to Mrs Hudson and she'll take good care of you. Do what she tells you, okay?'

He sniffs, still shaking quietly throughout.

I add: 'Promise me you won't do anything silly.' _Liquid nitrogen, fire extinguisher, the lot._

Sherlock nods at last.

'I'll be back in no time, little guy.' He sniffs again. By the time I get heard by a judge and set free on bail Sherlock will be an adult again. This is the last I'll see him like this and I'm leaving behind my waterlogged-eyed child friend on his own. I'd go for further troubles – daring escape and all – if I stood any chance, but I know I don't.

I conjure my best smile, because I want to see him smile too.

_It never fails._

I ruffle his curls softly, I know it's a soft spot. 'Can you be good for me, Sherlock?' I make that one last request.

He thinks it over for a second, then he settles for: 'I'll act all grown-up, John.'

Not quite what I meant and he knows it. _Always the little rebel._ Before I can set the record straight I'm being pulled away. This is the police and I've had too much leniency in their eyes.

As I'm being pulled away and handcuffed, Sherlock stands there, with big eyes wide and a vacant non-responsive expression that saddens me in its stoicism.

_I feel like I've failed him, in this parenting business._

He's fighting hard to keep his emotions in check, trusting no one. I feel that, all in all, this huge mistake was mine, failing my friend miserably. This experience only reaffirms his belief that alone is better, that trusting me was exposing himself to a rollercoaster of emotions that could only end badly, that he should have remained cold, distant, impartial as ever.

With one last push, I'm shoved away from Sherlock.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	76. Chapter 76

_A/N: Last one! -csf_

* * *

_.** Part Four .**_

There's soup to reheat in the fridge's second shelf and I'm hoping Mrs Hudson has the stamina to insist Sherlock actually eats some.

'_John Watson?'_

He only eats if properly distracted, maybe engaging his mind in some puzzle.

'_John Hamish Watson?'_

Hate that name! I open my eyes, startled to realise someone is calling me. From the small holding cell's long bench I raise a tiresome gaze at the officer calling at the barred door.

'It's me', I state, non-overly enthusiastically. Easy choice, really. My current next door neighbours are a junkie on a hangover and a seedy old man, none looking like breaking and entry at a well-secured house is at their best capacity level.

'DI Lestrade wants to see you.'

_Greg?_ How did he know?

I realise I need to give consent to the visitor and shrug my shoulders. ' 'Kay.'

Greg comes in two seconds later. He looks worried, frazzled, even if he's trying hard to conceal it.

'John? How are you, mate?' And he looks over the shoulder to check the eavesdroppers.

_I'm in jail, Greg. No privacy to be found here._ 'What do you want?' I ask, a bit more angrily than I'd have expected.

'Sherlock phoned me', he tells me at once.

I open my mouth to talk, then hold my breath and close my mouth. Over the phone, Sherlock may have tried to play adult to Greg. Alleging a cold, for instance, to explain the voice difference. He could even find a way of proving himself to be Sherlock to Greg, who knows him well. _I mean, better than most. Better than Sherlock himself suspects._

'He told me you were here', Greg adds on. 'That it was for a case.' I nod, slowly. 'I spoke to the officer at the scene, John.' _So, he does know._ Greg's smart enough to do the maths. 'Spoke to Mrs Hudson first. Apparently Sherlock unplugged the fridge again and some soup turned sour...?'

I fight a giggling fit. _Oh, Sherlock._

Greg softens his expression, his gaze still very intent upon me. 'You really have been taking care of him, haven't you?' I keep quiet, not feeling as this is the appropriate space to disclosure information on a child Sherlock. Not in the house of criminals and lowlifes. 'You may deserve a trophy by now', he gathers, I frown in confusion. I guess this means Greg must know. Either Sherlock himself or Mrs Hudson told him. It's only fair. Greg is a part of Baker Street's inner circle. 'Sherlock asked me something I cannot give him.'

_Body parts? Fingerprint database access? A race car?_

'He asked me to take him in, instead of you, John.'

I close my eyes with a deep shiver. _No, Sherlock._ I would never trade places with you. I'd never allow you to dwell in here, wasting your precious time – as an undercover child or a regular adult. You belong in Baker Street with your loved ones.

'I told Sherlock all you had to do was to plead guilty and promise you wouldn't repeat it. He told me you were not to take the blame. He wants your record to remain spotless. Imagine Sherlock, caring about law things for once! Well, there's always Mycroft Holmes, I suppose, he could tweak the records.'

_No._ 'Thanks for the message, Greg. See you later, mate.'

The DI frowns heavily. 'He even says you should turn him in. That it was his idea. He insisted.'

_No._ 'Message delivered. Thanks. You can go now.'

'I can see in your stubborn expression that you won't do that, John.'

'Of course not', I agree naturally.

'Didn't think you would. Told him just that. Either way, I can't fix this, John.'

'I know', I state softly. _Sorry to bring you to this mess._

'What am I to tell Sherlock?'

I shrug. _You're the messenger. Make something up, delay the delivery, whatever. Just be nice to him._

'This is serious, John.'

'I know', I state quietly, as I look on my friend straight on. 'I know the apartment belongs to army personnel. People will hardly assume it to be a coincidence that a former army doctor took up burglary for a hobby in that particular location.'

My friend frowns in half-amused confusion. 'Army? No, the man doesn't belong with the army. Are you sure...?'

'...I got in the right house?' I complete for him, impatiently. _Yes, I'm—_

_Oh!_

'Please tell Sherlock there was a trophy. That's the message. A trophy. He'll get it, Greg... Then, if you have some free time, will you come back to give me a lift back to Baker Street?'

_**.**_

It'd take three or four more hours before I was set free by a grumpy officer, a man of short words and a distant look in his eyes. I'm almost outside, hurrying back to Baker Street and to the side of a scared looking child Sherlock that has lost his best friend. _In the end, he was the one getting me out. _He was still my back-up, only in a safer position._ Police or not, wouldn't have chosen it any other way._

Collecting my personal belongings at the front desk, suddenly I hear my name called out sharply in a squeaky voice.

'John!'

I turn around with a building smile that only widens as I see my five year old friend running towards me.He launches his small frame against me with his arms spread out and hugs me tightly as if he would never let go of me again. I close my eyes and lower my face to his dark curls, taking in his incredible demonstration of affection and care.

In his own personal way, Sherlock has always been very protective of this ex-soldier, once flatmate. Sure he may have poisoned my coffee and there is still a Wednesday to be explained, but he saved my life by correctly deducing my attraction to danger, by providing me with e renewed sense of usefulness, and sharing a sense of home in 221B. It's all the Sherlock that I'm hugging tightly in my arms, in a once-in-a-lifetime chance to physically demonstrate this togetherness that we share.

'I'm sorry, John', he squeaks.

I shake my head immediately. I'll have none of that. 'Don't even think that, ever.'

'But you were in prison, John.'

'It was just a holding cell', I minimise.

'So, you're not ...angry... with me?' he asks attentively, with big rounded eyes that seem just a touch studied.

_No matter how many times you've rehearsed this conversation in your worried mind in order to appease me, I'm still not letting you go through it. There is nothing to be forgiven._

'Not in the least angry with my best friend, Sherlock.'

He redoubles sincerely his effort in hugging me as tightly as his small arms can.

It's fine, I'm the adult here and I'm doing the same.

Finally I look up and find Greg again. He's smiling in a very strange way, maybe even emotional, no matter how much he tries to hide it. 'Need a ride, mate?' he recalls me of my previous smug statement, with a friendly smirk. 'This little guy over here insisted on coming with me to get you.'

I look over at Greg. Something in his expression tells me Sherlock may have been hiding under the kitchen table, waiting for the world to make sense again, when Greg arrived with my message.

'Thank you, Sherlock. You cleared my name and in the process convinced the police I am a genius detective like you. I guess you were okay with sharing the spotlight with me after all.'

He smiles. 'I got your message. That was actually very smart, John.'

I shrug. 'Yeah, well, I have my days', I play along. 'When Greg told me the apartment wasn't property of an army man at all, I knew there was no fair reason for a recently issued bravery medal to be in the owner's possession, alongside his valued poison pocket flask.'

'It was a momentum of a prior victim, a trophy of his success as a murderer', Sherlock agrees. 'There were even traces of the poison on the silk, from where the murderer handled the ribbon when picking up the medal.'

'And all medal have an owner that you can trace...' I start.

He rolls his eyes. 'Well, Mycroft did take care of all those evidence to set you free, according to my directives, in the end. After I told him you had been wrongly imprisoned.'

I smirk. 'Really? The Commonwealth gave him the time off?'

Sherlock smiles brilliantly, in mutual understanding. 'It was either clearing your name by following my instructions, or babysitting me, and he declares he's had enough of the latter, being the older one.

I shake my head. Something deep in me suspects Mycroft might actually enjoy the chance to revisit Sherlock's childhood.

Sherlock insists: 'Hence, Mycroft needed to clear your name. Which he has done, and also will sponge it from the records, in a couple of days. You are to remain spotless, especially when you help catch a murdering poisoner that targeted retired army officials... John', Sherlock calls me. 'We've not only prevented a murder from happening tomorrow, we also caught a murderer responsible for a crime we didn't know about. I think in the end, we did good.'

i nod, slowly. Then I gather, in a more energetic way: 'We definitely earned ourselves some ice-cream. Is there any liquid nitrogen left?'

Greg's jaw is dropping, Sherlock is already nodding enthusiastically, as we head all three back to the lab. I mean, 221B.

_**.**_


	77. Chapter 77

_A/N: __Don't know where the weird ones come from and I try not to think too much about it._

_Better give the ending away. __John won't stay dead.__ It'd be no fun._

_If that didn't put you off, here's the first of two parts. There's no real reason to break it apart other than the fact that it's too long. -__csf_

* * *

_**(1)**_

_**.**_

Last vivid memory I hold are electric shocks twitching my body, discharged by the contact from the damp paddles of a cardiac arrest machine. The high-pitched alarm went on uninterrupted, registering no minimum signs of life, till the continuous warning dissolved to the fading darkness around me. I became a part of a timeless ethereal existence, destined to fade away as well, or be transformed into something else.

_**.**_

I must be dead, a goner, crossed over. Where, I have no inkling. I'm waiting with a backstage pass to something else, no clue on what to do now.

I'd have thought being dead would be an All or Nothing business. Turns out, like Sherlock often said, _I'm bored_. Didn't quite expect this strange afterlife suspension. _Am I supposed to wait? _Guess I don't have a choice. There's no user's manual, no recommended procedure for this sort of event.

I'm doubled up, as I stand outside my own hospital room. Can't bring myself to get in there and see myself a goner. No matter how much a doctor who's been to war (and a sidekick to a great detective with crime scene free access) should be accustomed to seeing dead bodies, I'm repulsed by this thought. Maybe that's why I'm still here. I should go there and confront myself and the inevitability of my demise. That should speed up things... Okay, going in now...

Oh, wait! Isn't that Greg, coming down the hallway? _A bit too late, Greg!_ What are you doing here? I guess a few more minutes aren't going to hurt...

Is it unethical to take a peek on the scene? It's sort of my eulogy, right? It's intended for me, anyway.

A sight at the end of the corridor freezes me to the core and stops me in my tracks. How could I have forgotten about _him_? Sherlock was there - was he? - must have been - what is this like for him?

It's morbid curiosity that keeps me moving as I walk away from my room and to the end of the corridor, I keep telling myself. Only, all I feel is deep concern as I approach the broken-down silhouette of my best friend. Seating at the edge of an uncomfortable long bench outside the hospital rooms, head bowed down to his hands, intertwined fingers on his curls in a desperation picture.

I never really pondered this possibility. Didn't want to. But if I did, I wouldn't have imagined my friend in such a frazzled state. In a twisted way it hurts me that he never let me see that I mattered this much to him. Like he did to me. I now wish I could have found the words to have let him know_._

Hopefully, at least a tiny part of him knew how important he is to me.

_"Sherlock, it's okay. Honestly. I'm here. You can't see me, but I'm here and I won't leave your side."_

How long will it take before the sorrow abates?

Sherlock, we knew this could happen. Maybe we should have talked about it some more. Now I left you suddenly - for all you know it must have been sudden - and unsupported through your grief. And... Where's Greg? He should be here. Sherlock is not alone. He's got a lot of friends now. He won't be alone, not ever again...

I look around me in agitation only to recognise a forensics collection bag open on the floor.

Greg didn't go to my room to pay his respects. He went to collect evidence. That means I died in suspicious circumstances. Sherlock must have insisted on coming along, but now can't bring himself to function and perform his chosen job, his natural vocation.

_He's struggling to hold himself together._

And Greg? Why is he the one doing this? Why not Anderson? Did something happen to Anderson too? No, of course not. Greg wants to do it himself, for Sherlock's sake.

That Sherlock allows Greg to touch my cold body is already a privilege. That Sherlock is outside the room is no short of a miracle.

Or maybe he just couldn't bear to be anywhere else.

I'm touched by such a quiet and sincere display of friendship. Never too late. I'm glad I saw it. I know I need to go - somewhere - but I can't bring myself to leave behind my friend this distraught.

Sherlock gets up all of a sudden and I'm taken aback by the decision imprinted in his every feature. There's also a silent cry of despair in his green eyes that tingles every intangible fibre of my being (or spirit, or whatever I am now). I know I need to follow Sherlock closely, I know I don't want to leave him on his own. One day he'll find someone like me, better even, and he'll smile and giggle and sneer as he goes back to being the Sherlock we all love. _Can't wait to see that happen._

Time is a human invention to measure how the universe is getting older, and it affects me differently now. Something like twenty minutes must have gone by without me hardly noticing. First the cab ride as Sherlock stoically played strong within an abstraction fit. His fingers quivering every once in a while, sometimes drawing up a fist tight enough to dig fingernails into his palm. Then onto the old street on a foggy day, with cars rolling by in the tarmac under the shops electric lamps. 221B looking down on us, with a warm glow and a welcoming blaze in the fireplace, where we'll always dwell among our cases, enthralled and timeless. We'll be a part of 221B forever.

As I follow Sherlock climbing up the stairs, I notice he's dragging his feet, drained of his usual lively, borderline maniac, energy.

As we come in, Baker Street is all but what I remember it to be. It's cold and lonely, positively more disorganized than the cluttered organised chaos I got used to. I view it as a reflection of my friend's state of mind at the moment and it troubles me.

_"Sherlock, you need to pull through this."_ I lecture on, even though I know he can't hear me._ "When I met you - when we first met, you didn't need anyone to mind your business, remember? You knew you were strong enough to endure anything. I know that too."_ He comes into 221B with a blank stare that runs past the clutter, the walls, even me. I double my efforts to sound reasonable. _"This hurts now. It hurts me and it hurts you, but in time it softens, and only the best remains..." _Faking a tight smile I further assure him: _"We are doomed to repeat it all because we are programmed to forget and reconnect again. If I've shown you anything, Sherlock, is that you have a big heart the world needs to see. And I'm quite sure_ _will see again. I may not be here to make you tea and play real life Cluedo, but you don't need me like you did. I'll always be with you because I'm a part of you now..." _I'm desperate for him to listen to me now. _"I'm really happy to have had the privilege to know you, Sherlock... Don't mess it all up now by going out to do something stupid to forget your pain. Trust me, I know how hard it is, but it gets better."_

Finally, I see him take a seat on his armchair. Could be a coincidence, I really don't care. My gaze stuck on his broken one, I've lowered myself down to kneel beside him, because my hand rests on his shoulder and I don't want to let go.

Here I thought being a ghost was a peaceful thing. Haunting places, scaring people on Halloween, there was nothing about being this helpless. It's my turn to lower my head in defeat. I don't think I can help my friend who needs me so much right now.

'It was the widow, John', he says in the middle of a tired sigh.

Why is he saying my name and speaking about something that hardly permeates in his mind? Oh, he's trying to keep himself busy with work. But why address it to me? Is this like Greg once told me, that on Sherlock's comeback, he kept calling Molly by "John" and spoke as if I was there?

'Preposterous, John! I'm the detective, I should have seen it coming. It was the wrong jacket, John! The wrong jacket, and I didn't see it!'

He's bracing wildly, annoyed at something with an intensity that reminds me of the old Sherlock and eases my nerves. Up until he halts suddenly, looking all deflated, staring at my empty armchair.

'Did you see the jacket, John?'

This is turning more personal, now. My gaze follows his, to my empty chair. _I don't know, Sherlock. I can't remember the small things. They all faded in the timeline. Only the important things remain. As they should, I suppose._

'She had a gun concealed under the jacket. It wasn't fashion or comfort that led her to change her jacket. She was hiding a gun. She intended to shoot me. She shot you.'

I shiver, as much as a spectrum can. That's what happened, then. Mrs Evans shot me. Because I was with Sherlock. No regrets there, I was where I should have been.

_"It's okay, Sherlock. I mean it."_ I'm not a revengeful ghost. Luckily, I suppose. Having been to war, I'd have plenty of people to haunt.

_I'm also not going away._ I'll stay by Sherlock's side for as long as it takes for me to be replaced. I'm proud to believe I've done enough to give my replacement a run for their money.

If I can protect him as well - not about to trust some easy going replacement just like that - I'll stick around for that mission. Yes, I'm being stubborn, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. _I'll always be Sherlock's shadow, as long as he'll have me around._

'You were shot, John. You were shot', he keeps repeating like some trans-hypnotic mantra, and I wonder if he still has difficulty accepting my fate. One minute he appears resigned, the next he's back to square one.

'It's been a week today, John.'

_Seriously? Where have I been before now? Searching for Sherlock? _Why did time only "start" for me when I found him? Do I have one last mission? Well, I've accepted already a mission, and I won't back down.

Sherlock leans over to my chair and moves the Union Jack pillow aside, revealing a piece of torn fabric underneath. I recognise its pattern with a shock. _Is that my shirt? Was I shot while wearing that shirt?_ I see rusty brown old stains in it and realise I got it right. Why is Sherlock keeping it, though? Morbid momentum, scientific interest?

The way Sherlock is holding that piece of trashed garment is contradictory to its apparent value. He holds it up with misplaced sweetness, as if it was priceless to him.

A knock on 221B's door and Sherlock resigns himself to put the fabric down on my chair, not even taking care to return it to hiding. He opens the door to Molly and I smile to see that Sherlock is not alone in his hour of need. _Besides me, I mean._

It's been a week, and this quiet display of raw pain I'm witnessing is already a time abated response. I realise I'm smiling bitterly.

'Sherlock', Molly greets softly as she comes in. 'You didn't drop by to see the conjoined twins' pictures I had for you at Bart's.'

He acts aloof. 'Didn't remember.' It shocks me that Sherlock admits openly that something interesting slipped off his mind.

Molly's gaze is by now, however, stuck on my old shirt. _Well, Sherlock seems to have taken possession of it now._

'Sherlock...' she starts, with the ease of an often repeated conversation.

He ignores her tone of voice blatantly. _Not helping yourself there, my friend. She means well._

Molly is insisting, sadly: 'John wouldn't have chosen this existence.'

I smirk. _Getting used to it now._ Acting like Sherlock's guardian angel, or whatever you want to call it, is hardly a stretch from my everyday at 221B. I miss the tangible touch of textures, the flavour of foods and smells, and all those little things I hardly paid attention to when I had them. But before I move on to whatever there is next, I'll stay in this limbo for however long needed in order to help my friend.

_He's too shaken up._

'He chose me to make the decisions for him, if something happened, Molly.'

_Yes, I did_, I recall with some surprise. It was one tough night before Mary, before Reichenbach, when we worked a tough case. I felt there was no one I wanted to trust my last wishes more than Sherlock. It'd also enable him to make the calls and have access to all medical information pertinent, in case something terrible happened to me. I don't regret the trust, only the heavy load it carried that I couldn't foresee before this.

I chose a genius to make the decisions for me. It was hardly a leap of faith. I wanted someone to make the cold reasoning decisions in case I couldn't.

He too was to deposit his trust in me, if only in a mirrored generous offer. I know Mycroft would never let me. As for me, I had a drunk sister and some estranged family. No one I would want to trust, let alone allow such confidence.

'He'd have wanted a clean break. You're not letting him go. The shirt, Sherlock...'

We never really talked it through. Superstition or otherwise, as a doctor I should have had the collected presence of mind to insist on the talk about hypothetical scenarios. To walk him through this emotions turmoil he now faces alone. _We both face it alone, so close to each other, but both unreachable._

Felt painful to ponder what could so easily happen to both of us, being human - and risking our lives so much, on top of it.

Sherlock's voice is meek and breaking as my friend admits: 'I miss him. His presence, his company. Even his smell. His shirt still carries it...' He's like a lost puppy bloodhound looking for his home.

Molly is being the rational one. She carries on, bravely:

'The shirt is torn and bloodied. You need to throw it away.'

'Can't, it's John's', he insists.

_Let it go, Sherlock. I'm here, no matter what._

'What would he say if he woke up and knew?'

Sherlock flickers a smile. 'Think he'll wake up today?' he interprets.

_Wait, wake up? What is going on? I'm dead, let's be honest about it..._

_...Aren't I?_

I'm a doctor; could I have got Death wrong? _What is this, then?_ Some sort of bad taste 80's telly episode version of a coma?

Or more to the point, is this some delusional dream, product of an oxygen-deprived short-circuiting brain? I may not be dead, but something catapulted me inside my brain, to this weird delusion, some external event might have triggered it. _I could be dying after all._

Molly saddens her expression and her whole demeanour.

'He's not waking up, Sherlock. You need to let go.'

_Hang on a second! I believe I should have some say about all of this! I'm on Sherlock's side in this one and it shouldn't come as a surprise given that I gave him the power to make the calls._

Silently, with the stubbornness of an obsessive thought, my friend is shaking his head, as if was trying to erase her words, as an intrusive thought.

The truth sinks in. _I'm not dead, after all. I'm not particularly alive either._

I'm starting to sense a connection between Sherlock's behaviour and why I'm still here. And if letting go is not an answer, then I need to find myself a comeback.

_Hum... How do I do that, again?_

_I really needed that user's manual right about now..._

'Come with me, Sherlock. Let us go see John one last time, so you can say goodbye.'

He nods, less than half-convinced, and I suppose he's taking what he can get in this proximity need.

_Yes, let's go there. I need to face it myself as well. And change the outcome. I'm not about to play by the rules on this one._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	78. Chapter 78

_A/N: And the last part is here. -csf_

* * *

_**(2)**_

_**.**_

Before I trail behind Molly and Sherlock, I have one good last look around 221B. It's as I something irked me in the back of my mind, something not quite right, something amiss.

Well, I can't tell what it is.

My friends, on the other hand, have already left and again I'm unaware of the time elapsed, while I was here, breathing in 221B and the feeling of peace it brings me.

With a sigh I close my eyes, focusing on my task, on the hospital corridor, and that elusive hospital room.

Much to my surprise, when I finally open my eyes, I'm standing outside the room, and I need to step aside in the last second to let my friends past me, inside. _Well, when I say I'm outside... An invisible part of me is. _Not the one they are trying to communicate with.

_Apparently, it's not only time that can be bent, space works the same._

I walk behind them, standing as close as I dare. Sherlock actually glances over his shoulder all of a sudden and I hold my breath, as if caught, before I understand it's all in my imagination and he can't have sensed me.

'Sometimes I feel like he's still close by, Molly', he confesses tiredly.

She smiles softly. 'John was always a quiet presence.'

Sherlock shakes his head, lost gaze up ahead. 'Not at all. He was always the most expressive, even when silent.' I guess he's telling Molly she didn't know me as he did. She saw little of the soldier in action and merely glimpses of the doctor, let alone that she had to take my side of our stories I blogged for its apparent worth - some things I just couldn't write out there for everyone to see. If someone knew the most of me, it must have been Sherlock.

Who he's visiting now is a mere shadow of who I was glad to be.

Lying on the white bed is an immobile, paler and thinner duplicate of me. The bandages must be somewhere in the chest area, under the bed sheet. The life support machine is not very imaginative, showing a deep unconscious state where my body is mostly unresponsive even to pain. I feel the need to look away, ashamed to be on display at this miserable state.

It's as I'm looking away that I recognise Sherlock's violin on the bed stand. _He must have played for me to listen to._

This is what I found missing from 221B, that I couldn't put my finger on. There's Sherlock's violin, the chequered blanket that sits atop of my armchair, my RAMC mug and a few more loose items.

The predominance of my objects over his shows me that Sherlock wanted me to feel at home. Even if I can see to the side a small weekend bag from Mrs Hudson with my friend's stuff packed inside.

I'm starting to doubt whether Sherlock left my side at all before I came here. Doesn't look like it at all, and I'm thankful for the quiet devotion. It means a lot to a man that lived war and will never sleep so soundly ever again. _He was watching my back at my most vulnerable state._

_"Thanks for all this, Sherlock."_

Clearly he can't hear me. He's engaged in a tense murmured talk with Molly as they both take the visitor chairs in the room.

'Greg's doing what he can to catch the shooter. She went on a run. He's really trying, Sherlock. And you know that catching her won't change a thing now.'

She's sensibly leading him along, but my friend refuses to listen.

'I don't need to rest!' he tells her, tetchily. 'People waist their time with their physiological needs!'

'John wouldn't agree.'

'John won't wake up!' he shouts back angrily, full of hurt.

_"I'm sorry, Sherlock."_

All three of us are surprised by Greg, at the door. He must have walked the corridor on his most silent footsteps. Sensing whether it was a good time to join in. He did, because he's on Molly's side, and wants to show his support on a lecture to a stubborn isolated friend.

_Told you, Sherlock. Not alone._

'Well, I... The Scotland Yard knows where she is, Sherlock. I came here to ask if you want to be there when we arrest her for what she did to John. You can't participate, but if you want to watch...'

Sherlock nods humbly. _Too humbly._ I know what he has on his mind. He wants to exert revenge. How can't Greg see it? _I guess I know Sherlock better than Greg. I can tell what is on his mind, and I can't let him act on it._

Come to think about it, didn't see my Browning in Baker Street either.

_I need to stop this. I need to help Sherlock._

They are leaving the room, and I'm powerless and defeated. Frustration is rising to the point that I find myself shaking from head to toes. I close my eyes tightly, trying to control myself...

I open my eyes the room is skewed, as if from a different perspective.

_This is it. My second chance._

'Shhh-?'

It's hardly discernible and utterly weak, this sound that desperately comes out of my dry mouth to stop my friend, and keep him safe.

He whiplashes his neck towards the patient awaken in the white linen bed. I can see my friend's pupils dilating wide, trembling lip, as he sucks in a deep breath of air.

Like he's seen a ghost.

No, he hasn't._ Not for all the time I was there._

'John?' he calls out, in a voice flooded with hope and relief, drowned in simple happiness. 'John, can you hear me?'

Of course I can. Been doing much more than that. In the end I exhaust myself by rolling my eyes in a smaller singe of the amount of disdain I was aiming for.

Behind him both Molly and Greg race out to call a emergency doctor into the room.

'Don't be daft, John! It's a valid question. You've been out of reach for a week. Doubtfully you can speak and move on your own just for now. Your body needs to regain the costume of following orders from your brain.' Sherlock is venting, acting like he's on a case-solved monologue to his audience of one.

_Missed that too._

I nod slowly to let him know I got it.

'Do you know the date? What are three and three, divided by three? Can you tell me who is the prime minister?' Sherlock shoots out assessment questions, then smirks and admits: 'Two of those will be news for me, John, do try not to get them wrong.'

I smile as well and it's like I've set free all the happiness in the world as Sherlock mirrors my smile from the inside out.

'Never do that again, John!' he half-orders, half-pleads with me. I nod, in a silent vow. _Not really keen on it either. It got me bloody hungry. _That should have been a hint from the start to tell me I wasn't that dead at all.

Sherlock rolls his eyes comically, much more attuned to my thoughts than he was to my presence for the last hours. 'Hungry, yes, as usual, John. Fine, I'll get a nurse and tell them that. Don't get your hopes up on the hospital food's taste, though.'

He promises to sort it out for me and yet he seems rooted to the spot. _He doesn't want to leave. _He thought he had lost me, now he doesn't want to let me go. It's only fair, I also feel comforted to have him here - smiling, light, so apart from the shadow I followed around.

'Bullet-proof vests', he states, out of the blue. 'We need to invest in some bullet-proof vests, John.'

I nod, smirking. _Better make sure this won't happen again._

'As to Mrs Evans - she was the one who shot you, by the way - I'll leave her to Greg and Mycroft... with a minimal nudge from me in the right direction', he adds, darkly.

_I'm glad he gave up on his lone crusader revenge act. _He'll still get his way, but his mind is elsewhere focused now.

On my second chance.

_**.**_

It's been another week, and I find myself quietly recuperating in Baker Street. My friend has made a point to spend as much time as he possibly can in 221B. He's been solving his cases mostly at a distance, through his laptop, with the priceless official professional espionage from Greg. That has been settling his spirits, for he now episodically finds the need to gaze at me silently. Maybe counting my breaths per minute or assessing my pulse by a vein in my neck, I wouldn't know. All I sense is that he's assuring himself of my good health. Can't really blame him, I still do that most times I wake up from a nap.

'Sherlock, there's something I been meaning to tell you... It's not the usual thing we'd discuss openly between us, but-'

He cuts me short: 'Me too.'

I blink. Are we talking about the same things? There are always enough ambiguities between the both of us to have filled books and books. It's an old pattern, and perhaps this broken-up double-meaning speech is the only way we can communicate more deeply between the two of us.

Perhaps all that was unsaid before was merely a reflection of such a deep friendship that most things felt like needn't be said aloud.

'Well, I should let you go first. Mine is...' I hesitate, embarrassed. What do you say to your mate? _"I had a weird dream while in hospital where I saw you hurt for my loss; wanna talk about it?"_

_'Just drop it, John'_, he tells me softly. 'There's nothing you can tell me that I don't already know in one way or another. We may not speak it, but we understand each other.'

I nod, slowly, mesmerised. He did read my mind. _Well, Sherlock just cut my list of things I need to say in half, just like that._

'I'm still going to say them', I also understand this need I have. He smirks but otherwise accepts my position.

'I'll get us some tea going then.'

Sounds amazing, I realise.

_**.**_

* * *

_2A/N: It's been previously pointed out to me that. I don't clarify things enough. So here are some bonus points:_

_* We know from the "hero speech" that Sherlock doesn't have on high consideration John's emotional care for his patients; will that help cure them? Yet, here Sherlock is, going against his rational beliefs, because this is John._

_* John starts his (wacky) out of body experience suddenly. Actually, the timing coincides with Sherlock leaving the room, presumably for the first time in a week - there are signs of a very cohesive presence all along when John wakes up. It's as if John missed him, or sensed his distraught state, fighting to be by his side in a mirrored response to his friend's own behaviour.  
* I meant to double check, but I think Evans was the name of the character on the only of Conan Doyle short-stories where John actually gets hurt.  
* There was a (not-very-good) nod to Starret's poem entitled 221B.  
* I never defined whether John got hurt defending Sherlock or on his own. I'd rather not see it as a generous gesture to save Sherlock only because that could take some away from Sherlock. He's definitely not acting out of guilt here. Just longing.  
* I've also not defined the medical conditions because it's not necessary to the story's focus.  
* Can't think of anything else right now. Is this better? I never claimed to be a writer, and I write as I read: with lots of room for thought and ambiguity. -csf  
_


	79. Chapter 79

_A/N: _I was looking for something else, entirely unrelated, when I found this. It's been almost a year and I never posted it. According to my note it was meant to be "Just drop it, John" #10. It's short, pointless, silly nonsense._ -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

«Just drop it, John. –SH»

I stare at the lit screen on my phone, rereading the fresh text message from Sherlock, trying to understand its cryptic meaning and mysterious process.

Before I know it, I've already dropped my half-eaten piece of toast. _Is it poisoned?_ No logic. _My_ bread and _my_ butter. Poisons may have occurred when I was at Baker Street – and by Sherlock's own hands (for scientific purposes alone, he assures me!), but not anymore.

So here I am, in my kitchen, phone in my hand, dismissed toast. T-shirt and pants, by the fridge, shying away from the window, not even dressed for work yet.

I wonder if there's actually a cctv camera nearby, out there on the street. Sherlock assured me there hadn't been one installed to spy on me, but I wouldn't put it past Mycroft to secretly get one snug against his little brother's handler's house. Keeping a check on me is designed by Mycroft as a non-confrontational way of keeping tabs on Sherlock.

_Damn, I'm letting paranoia get the better of me. Hanging around the Holmes brothers will do that to you._

_It's also strangely addictive._

Just to be safe, I'll pull the curtains closed, behind the sink. And I throw the rest of the toast in the bin. Don't feel like eating it anyway. _Gave up on the coffee too._

I look again at my phone. "Just drop it". Still won't make sense. Drop what? My phone?

There's a syntax difference between "just drop _it_" and "just drop _this_", and Sherlock is one to take notice.

Not the phone, then.

Somehow, from across London, Sherlock wants me to drop something.

I need to have a shower – not solve Sherlock's shenanigans. He's probably messing with me. _Again._

I put down the phone as I reach the bathroom and shrug off my t-shirt as I'm already waiting for the hot water. Drop my crumpled t-shirt in the laundry basket – _thanks, Sherlock, for making me take notice of everything I let go of variable heights today_ – before I get inside the shower cabin. Grab the shampoo, drop a small squirt in my hand... _should I even continue paying attention to this?_ As the shampoo emulsifies, I allow the hot water dripping down on me to soothe my aching joints. Tough night. Lots of old memories, swirling inside half-ludicrous bad dreams, not nearly as bad as my usual nightmares. I should consider myself lucky. And I should _drop those memories as well._

The bathroom smells of spicy soap as I come out, grabbing a towel to wrap around my waist, and glance at my wrist watch on the shelf. This surreal business got me running late. I shave and get dressed for work in haste. As I'm leaving the bathroom there's a confident knock on the door. Sounds a lot like Sherlock's rhythm.

I go open the door at once. Sherlock's there, waiting at my doorway in his typical impatience. Immediately he frowns as he takes a look at me, causing me to follow his gaze. _Are my buttons done wrong? Is my shirt ripped? Is it national anti-chequered shirt's day?_ He reacts accusingly: 'You didn't call in sick to work, John!'

'What?' I blank, confused.

'You got dressed for work', he insists in despise, pointing up and down my shirt. I try to sketch a smile, it comes out hesitant. _Nice deduction, mate! But—_

'I'm going to work, Sherlock, hence the clothes', I tell him markedly.

'No, you aren't! Didn't you read my message, John?' He rolls his eyes, as he's sure he's explaining the obvious, wasting our time. I finally start to see it. The text message was sent so early in the morning, when my only plans were to get to work. To all accounts, he was quite brief and to the point. "_Drop it, you're not going to work, John."_

I sigh. The eloquent genius can be terribly misleading when he's got his head in a new case.

Like today.

And he needs my help.

It's probably _that_ dangerous.

I grab my black jacket from the hanger. 'I'll call the clinic from the cab, Sherlock! I'm overdue for time off anyway. Let's go!' I play along.

'Finally!' he mutters under his breath, but there's a genuine smile on his face, however brief it may have been. He's already thinking about the case again, I suspect.

'Next time, maybe you can go ahead and get me some time off yourself?' I joke, opening the door. There's a cab already waiting for us, engine running, non-murderous cabbie at the wheel.

Sherlock frowns, pensive. 'House fire, lottery winning, rare pet snake bite, kidnapped, snowed in...? What would you prefer I tell them?' He's actually opening the cab's door for me to enter first, I notice. Another kind gesture, the type he won't publicise.

'Why don't you tell them we're about to go save the day – again?' I joke.

'Okay', he tells me like an obedient kid.

I take a seat on the back of the cab, staring straight at my friend, trying to read his close-faced expression. He didn't take me seriously, did he?

I'm in for a world of trouble.

_Life's never dull with Sherlock around._

_**.**_


	80. Chapter 80

_A/N: In a timeline, this would be located somewhere in series two._

_This post is also an old lost one (while I work on a fresh one). I didn't post it then because I was afraid it might come across as insensitive in some way. Hopefully I posted enough to declare on my sensitivity, or lack there of. I'll accept either judgement._

_Not that I think John should feel this way, it's just a small insecurity episode that, I'm sure, most of us have felt at some time or another. I can be honest and say I've had my fair share of those. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Sometimes I wonder if Sherlock does it on purpose. Then I remember _it's Sherlock_. He's always working multiple angles at a time, so: _yes, it's on purpose._ At least in one of those angles. Possibly even in two or three... I sigh, feeling deflated.

How he's dragged me into this impromptu work with him, I'm not sure. He was persuasive, though short on explanations. And he sure didn't tell me it'd be at a pool. The same pool most Yarders frequent. People I know. I don't want them to see me like this. Like I am now and forever more, after a bullet shattered my shoulder and changed my fate. _I'm not getting out there. _I don't care about the criminal we're spying on. Actually, I'll let Sherlock do this one on his own. He doesn't need me. He's probably done it on purpose too. _Yes, I'm really sure he did._ I'm not going out there. I'm wound up, my decision is made. Sherlock can't make me do something I don't want to. This is my exception, I'm allowed one, right?

'John, we can't let him get away. He might do his move on Lestrade on the pool.'

_Greg Lestrade? _I can see the honest concern in Sherlock's eyes and voice, the fear that he alone will not be enough to keep our friend protected. Of course he read my hesitation. He always reads me like a book. And right now he's as good as admitting he needs me on this one, really needs me, and also our friend, Greg. I think he knows how much he's asking of me, even if he's acting all aloof, playing along, as if my shoulder scar was imperceptible.

Only it's not. It's as noticeable as a flashing neon sign to me.

Sherlock's tricking me alright, into doing what he wants. But there is a good reason behind it and I'm listening as he speaks my language to motivate me. _It's for Greg._

To hell with dignity. Someone's life is more important. And this is Greg, too.

Sensing my decision, Sherlock goes in the front, out of the changing rooms. I follow him dutifully, carrying both our towels over my shoulder, trying to act inconspicuous.

The pool is full of officers, some doing regular work out, others just sitting around sharing stories and laughing. _Soon they'll notice, and see, and comment on Mr Frankenstein here..._ Must not allow myself to notice. Can't control this. Somewhere out there is a murderer among good men, that's all it matters.

Must not make myself more noticeable for my tensed attitude either.

For now I'm managing to keep _it_ hidden with a towel lazily thrown over my shoulder. This can make this work, right?

This is the moment Sherlock chooses to, quite suddenly, start on a run. I glance around. He saw our suspect across the chlorinated waters, looming over Greg. In our unspoken coordination, the type that comes out of such a close work together, Sherlock's calling Greg's name and I'm already jumping into the water. Sherlock's racing around the pool.

Greg was alerted in time and he's fighting off the knife the criminal is trying to stab him with. Sherlock comes along to throw a strong punch on the criminal, knocking him away, he lands on the water's surface with a splash. I dive under the enemy as I perceive he's not dazed enough and he'll try it again. Through a front of tightly packed air bubbles I reach for the knife in his hand as he's receding it to plan a new attack on both Greg and Sherlock. I twist his wrist and the knife falls to the bottom of the pool, slowly, non-threateningly, as I'm already jamming and restraining the criminal against the edge of the pool. From the margin, some Yarders help me hold him back, then take over and force him out of the pool with them.

I pull myself up to the margin as well, as soon as they leave, and seat there, trying to steady my breathing.

Greg is nearby, healthy and safe, thanking Sherlock enthusiastically. The detective is putting on an act of indifference in front of the Yarders lot. _A bit too late for that, Sherlock, you've just ran in to save your friend's life._ I realise I'm smiling along, joining in the well-deserved praise.

It's out of the blue that I realise Greg's colleagues aren't following Sherlock's usual theatrical routine anymore. In fact, more than quite a few have their eyes stuck on me.

_Somehow I had forgotten._

Cold sinks at the bottom of my stomach. I strain my expression in a stoic fake smile. There's no turning back time. _It's_ out there to the world to see, exposed.

They are all looking at my messed up shoulder. No matter how many lives Sherlock and I save, there'll be only one thing they'll be talking about in two weeks' time. _I should know. It has happened before._

Worst of all, I can't cover up my shoulder – not that it wasn't too late. The towels have fallen behind, on the other side of the pool.

With a deep breath I inform Sherlock, as I get up: 'I'll be in the changing rooms, okay?'

Sherlock snaps his head towards me. Maybe it was something in my voice that alerted him. He knew why I didn't want to come. In the end he measures me, then Greg, then the spectators crowd. As I'm going away, he throws everyone there a dangerous threatening look, and says, in his most thunderous voice that echoes over the pool: 'That's John Watson, by the way. Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.' _Damn._ 'Yes, he's got a scar on his shoulder.' _Double damn._ 'By the way, he's not the only one with scars here. Practically everyone has then, bigger or smaller. You...' he points at a young lieutenant, 'were bit by a dog. You...' the woman next to him 'were in a car accident. You...' some older man 'fell of a chair drunk. And I could go on and on. John...' he points at me, and I freeze in absolute shock, halting on my retreat 'John got that saving lives. He's not a freak, he's a hero... The next one making John Watson uncomfortable will be dealing with me.'

I don't know where those people are looking at anymore. I'm staring dumbfounded at Sherlock.

I snap out of my stupor when someone starts clapping. Sherlock and I unlock gazes and follow the sound to Greg. He's smiling approvingly at Sherlock. Then he glances at me with a complicity look, asking me to accept it. Before I know it, more people join in.

'I'm...' _confused, I guess._

'_Just drop it, John_', Sherlock asks me, confidently, 'and enjoy it, you deserve it.'

_Thanks, Sherlock._

_**.**_


	81. Chapter 81

_(A/N) So, here's the starting point: __sci-fi_ _(yes, back to the age-modifying serums – if only I was a bit more creative!), in which John is erroneously turned into an __old man__. More to the point, he's turned into a very old man, the sort that one day might be retired in the countryside with Sherlock, but he doesn't know it yet. By then he might need Sherlock's sharp mind for support, and he'll still be the warm heart that feeds the so-called sociopath's curious mind._

_Again, I've been digging into my personal experiences for this one. Somehow it's been growing along. At least two parts, maybe three. I wouldn't know, it's not fully done yet. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part One .**_

I wake up with a startle, immersed in a half-completed thought that gives me no peace. Something, I can tell, is not right. And it's bad, _really bad_. I fell asleep after agreeing to take Sherlock's age-modifying serum last night. It was for a case, he assured me there was no other way around. Sherlock was quite eloquent and in the end I gave in. Again. _Yes, I don't seem to learn the lesson._ So, after a restless sleep I expected fully to awake up this Saturday morning as a five year old. It has been done before. _Just not this time._ I've woken up in my bed, still my full height and weight. One minor detail, I take it in as I look down on my hands over the covers. _These are not my usual adult hands either._

I scramble out of bed as if in a trance, heading towards the mirror in the wardrobe's door. This will be the fastest way to let me know what went wrong. I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the shock of a lifetime.

I look at the mirror. My suspicions were quite right, I'm afraid. Old wrinkled hands come up to an old parched skin in my aged face, worn by sun and wind, crinkling around mouth and eyes, softened in its expression by a certain air of innocence. How a soldier would manage to keep hold of some innocence is beyond me, though. My hair is all grey now and only in my eyes do I recognise some of the light common to the old days. My regular days, in fact.

_Well, I'll be damned._ First the war, then my years as Sherlock Holmes' sidekick, I didn't really think I stood a good chance to see me reach old age.

I muse at my reflection - the wrong age, but that's not what keeps my interest - facing how much I look like my parents and their parents. The wrinkles accentuate what generations of Watsons share in common.

My sister Harry would roll off her chair laughing at me. _It will come to her as well. I just got hold of a sneaked preview ahead of time._

Slowly, but decisively, I'm chuckling. 'Sherlock!' I call, in the middle of my crazy laughs.

"John?" I hear from downstairs.

'Sherlock, _what_ did I drink?' I ask honestly.

My friend comes up the stairs and finally opens the bedroom door, entering with a suspicion arisen from my adult voice, to then stop in his tracks. For a moment in time, he looks terrified. Then he snarls, angrily pissed off. '_Mycroft!_' he pronounces through gritted teeth. 'He deduced I was going to steel the serum! When I get my hands on my brother...'

'He turned me in to a senior citizen?' I laugh.

'Not _you_! He meant it for me, John, for me!'

I smile, taking comfort from Sherlock's little tantrum. Maybe it's the added age gap, but I seem to have more patience for Sherlock's childish antics now. They quite amuse me.

'Your brilliant plan has got a small flaw to it, Sherlock. I'm not a kid. We'll need a new plan, you know?'

Entranced, Sherlock nods. It's as if he's being careful now, too careful, as he studies my present condition. He goes so far as to slowly stroll around me, observing me from all angles. Can't blame him, I've done the same in front of the mirror. It's quite remarkable to see ourselves catapulted to more than double our age. Finally Sherlock completes his assessment and shakes his head. 'Forget the case, John. You are in no condition to partake.'

_I'm not available, but maybe he can do it. I can still help from the sideline._ I shrug as an answer and my shoulder responds with a revengeful pain twitch. Immediately I clutch it tightly as a reflex. Sherlock won't miss it, as his eyes narrow, zooming in on my old war wound.

_Figures! _In my old age, my shoulder is less than compliant.

_Bet it'll help me tell when it's about to rain too._

_Which in London is most days._

_I wonder if that will ever come up in a case._ Will Sherlock and I still be solving cases in my real old age? I can't imagine Sherlock retiring. Or me.

'Sherlock, how long will this last?' I make an effort to ask as casually as I can.

His expression turns regretful as he mumbles, as a kid caught in mischief: 'The whole weekend...'

'Yeah...' I reply with no certain intonation. 'Can your case wait a couple of days?' He nods, less than convincingly. 'Will you wait?' I particularise.

Sherlock frowns and decides to take his phone from his pocket. He dials a number very fast – won't text, it's _that_ serious – while looking away. By the way he avoids crossing gazes with me, I can tell he's seriously uncomfortable with the outcome of this serum mix-up and preferred to be somewhere else. _Oh._ Now that's... _not funny_, to begin with.

I thought Sherlock and I would have a proper laugh at this. _Guess I was wrong._

Suddenly I'm feeling more inappropriate then a bummed out three-legged table taking up most space in a small room. I look away hastily. _It's a countdown and it has started._ Keep steady, soldier. It'll pass.

Sherlock shouts out into his phone. 'Lestrade, why didn't you answer sooner?' he's snapping, through the awkward silence. Without waiting for an answer he moves on to the pertinent question. Not without hesitating for a second, though. 'And... how... are you?' he pronounces the words as if they were estranged. Barely giving Greg enough time to answer, he moves on: 'You and John are old pals, right? Hum... Wanna come over to Baker Street? John's here.'

Sherlock must have sent Greg into a near panic attack with his inept social invite. I feel like giggling again.

'Everybody's fine, Greg!' I speak out in the hope that our friend hears me. No fires, no explosions, no concealed dead bodies – except for those portions in the freezer that came from the morgue, but Greg already knows about those.

Sherlock gulps in response to something that our friend told him, then he fires: 'Remember when I turned John into a five years old kid? Well, I _didn't_ do that this time... Well, maybe not a praise, I'm not expecting that, no... John's about a hundred years old now.'

'Am not!' I protest, incredulous. Ninety, at the most.

Sherlock shrugs, disregarding scientific accuracy for once. 'Will you come?' he asks into the phone, pleadingly.

_Good heavens, Sherlock, I don't bite._ I couldn't, even if I tried.

_**.**_

I'd assume the detective inspector did it on purpose, although I'm sure he had some Scotland Yard's excuse ready to cover his one hour delay in showing up. When he finally does appear, I've rested somewhat in 221B's sofa, then feeling restless I've moved slowly to the kitchen. I was going to do something, but now I'm having trouble remembering what. Not that my friend has even noticed. He's been frantically taking notes and consulting graphs. I could have told him it's useless. Mycroft will never let him post a blog on age-modifying serums, not to mention his sample of one (army doctor) is not conclusive – and I won't let him repeat it.

I've been in 221's kitchen trying to recall what got me here in the first place when I hear the familiar footsteps. Soon, I see Lestrade coming in, cautiously. _I'm old, not about to have a heart attack if you give me a fright, Greg._

Fine, have it your way. I'll act like I don't even know he's there. See how long it'll take for that heart attack attempt...

Greg has stopped at the kitchen's glass sliding doors, uncertain how to go about his going-on-centenary pal. 'How's John?' he asks Sherlock instead.

'Old, grumpy and forgetful', Sherlock answers, with painful honesty.

'Oi!' I protest warningly at once. 'I'm not— not— _that!_'

'Point proven', Sherlock says under his breath, with a friendly smirk.

I'm starting to feel a bit vulnerable, lost. Suddenly, I realise I'm still holding the butter in my hand. What did I come here to do again? Oh, yeah. Put the butter away. I stuff it inside the microwave before it gets all mushy. Don't like mushy butter. Don't ask me why, it's just not natural. Butter shouldn't be squishy. It should feel like... proper butter! Anyway...

'Want a tea, Lestrade? Coffee?'

Our friend smiles in relief. 'Good to see you haven't forgotten me in your old age. Although, can you actually recall my first name? It's alright if you don't', he adds too fast, appeasing, 'Sherlock doesn't most days, and the other days he's probably just guessing anyway. And, you know, he's not temporarily...' he struggles not to offend me.

Behind him, Sherlock walked past us and is rescuing the butter from the microwave and taking it to the fridge.

'...he's not temporarily old and demented', I help Greg along, in a neutral tone of voice.

Sherlock interjects at once: 'Let's go with "confused" for now, John. Could be a side effect of the serum anyway. Doesn't mean that in your old age you'll be like this.'

_Not even close to believing you there, Sherlock._

Ashamed, I turn around before my emotions get the better of me. Work should keep me busy. I take up the kettle but somehow clumsy I get it caught on the electrical cord and tilt the ensemble, getting washed all over my shirt with its cold water. What was I doing anyway? It was full. It didn't need more water. Now I'm tired, and wet, and embarrassed in front of Sherlock and... hum, _Lestrade_. Can't remember my friend's first name.

Behind me, Sherlock is already coming up to me in wide steps and calm gestures. 'No, no, no, no, no...' he repeats like a soothing mantra that doesn't quite do the trick. 'It's alright, John, it's okay. Let me take care of that for you. _Just drop it, John_, and let me do it for you.' He actually fakes a polite smile that reminds me even more of the burden I am right now.

I take a step back, it's Lestrade's turn to come up to me and I realise he intends to help me get rid of my cold soaked shirt. _I let him._ What else can I do? I'm feeling deflated, useless and a nuisance to the ones I care about. They'd be better off without me. Right now this is temporary, I need to hold on till it's over. _But later, one day—_

Sherlock's returning to the kitchen with one of my old shirts and quietly guesses he'll need to help my weak shoulder through the dressing process. I just stare at him. Sherlock as the caretaker is an amazing thing to witness. The man who abhors meaningless social contact – exception made for crime scene corpses, that is – is determined to take care of me. It's touching and again I feel my eyes water and my hope returns. As he finishes doing the buttons he's monitoring my face attentively. I may actually pull this off with his help. He can always read my thoughts, he can also make sense of the world for me as long as I'm like this. In the end, Sherlock chooses to flash me a confident smile, not letting me down.

'I think I'll go rest now, Sherlock.'

He nods. He knows why.

'Will you make Lestrade tea?'

My friend frowns. 'He can do it himself!'

I sigh. Still, this is Sherlock being Sherlock, acting like nothing has changed, and I'm appreciative of it. 'Sherlock, he's our guest.'

Finally Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Fine! If it means that much to you!'

'Not poisoned, please. Let's not turn 221B into a retirement home.'

Sherlock chuckles. 'Could be fun...' he still says.

I lose my own smile. _Trust me, it's not._

Both my friends watch me walk slowly to my armchair and collapse into its comfortable shape. Only then do they resume discussing the case.

'So, have you got another plan, Sherlock?'

I grump quietly. _Any other friend to play age-swap with, he means, Sherlock._

'I can always turn myself, when I finally get a hold of my revengeful brother and I'm done with him...' the detective starts, with obvious reservations about the overall procedure.

'No, John needs you.'

'Or maybe if you want...'

'No, don't take it personally, but best not.'

I roll my eyes and let them know: 'I'm right here, you know? I can hear you! Not a mummy yet!'

Lestrade immediately insists: 'I wasn't implying...!'

Sherlock contributes, inconsequentially: 'Told you he's grumpy, Greg.'

_That's it! That's his name. Greg. _I sigh in relief. That was nagging me to no end.

'Sherlock, it can't wait. I let you try it your way. You said that John as a child could help question the witness. The little boy is no more than a child himself. I broke all protocols already by letting you know this. And I trusted John to be caring and sensitive to this boy's needs. I can't just let anyone else try. It would do more harm than good.'

'Are you just giving up on the case, detective inspector?' Sherlock comes back, depreciatively.

'No. I'm playing by the book from now on. There's nothing more you or I can do, Sherlock. Your best shot already got John into trouble, as it is. Make sure, Sherlock, make sure you take good care of him. God knows if it was the other way around he wouldn't leave your side for a second. Take good care of him, because he deserves it. Just a weekend, you can do pull this off.'

I'm dumbstruck at Greg's pep talk and even more to Sherlock's apparently patient listening. I just ruined Sherlock's chances on his new case and he seems perfectly fine to overlook that. _I've got good friends._

_**.**_

A couple of hours later and Sherlock hasn't left Baker Street yet. In fact, it doesn't look like he's planning to do so any time soon. He's been sitting in front of his computer, almost immobile, for all this time. Usually I'd worry if it wasn't unhealthy, but this is Sherlock.

'John!' Sherlock startles me by shouting my name. He's looking up from his laptop in a freeze frame of brilliancy. 'It says on the medical journal association you may be dehydrated!'

I frown and then sigh. 'Do they mention me by name or do the have me confused with some other old bean?' I ask back, banking on sarcasm. Sherlock ponders me unsurely. I realise his doubting whether I'm having another one of those confusion episodes.

I wish he'd just stop trying to fix me. It's a natural ageing process, and I'm old now. I'm also facing it with a lot more patience than I'd ever would if my body's biochemistry wasn't altered by the serum's effects, I realise.

Fine, I'll give in to Sherlock. He wants to see me drinking fluids. The worst that can come out of that is a more often visit to the loo. And it'll ward off the dehydration danger he's worrying about. The GP in me makes sense of what he advises and I trust him to help make it all better.

'Wait', he asks me softly, as he senses my decision. 'I'll make you tea, you like tea, John. Therefore, you'll be more likely to increase your uptake of liquids if there is tea available.'

'Okay', I accept, wondering if I should be suspicious, after the coffee incident yesterday. Well, if he was to poison me today it'd be to lower my age and my aching joints would welcome that.

_Fine, I'll drink it._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	82. Chapter 82

_A/N: __Still going for three parts, still not sure of the length. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part Two .**_

I must have dozed off in front of the telly, Sherlock has been in and out again before I knew it. Now I'm following his energetic moves across 221B's living room with a disconcerted attention span. Finally he halts, to have a look at his former sidekick. Concerned, he comes forward and asks me, point-blank: 'How's your shoulder?'

I frown. 'Shoulder?' What happened to it? I was shot, that's the easy answer. But that was long ago, in the desert. There was a medical rescue mission and—

'No, I mean today', he reads me easily; I never got a chance to speak. 'What does it feel like?'

'Like a rainy day', I assure him in what I hope is a clever way. Need to brush off the impression I gave before with the butter and the cold water. I'm feeling more focused now, less confused.

'I got you something to eat, John. You like to eat', he tells me in a simple logic, still trying his best to help me.

'Hope it's bland and mushy, or I'll pass', I point out with a smile. His smile breaks, however.

'I'll order something else. It won't take long, John.'

'It's okay', I dismiss. _Don't worry, Sherlock, I won't break. _I get up slowly.

'Where are you going, John?' Sherlock asks me, disguising some suspicion.

I frown, grumpy. 'Loo.' Can't I have privacy anymore? 'Sherlock, don't worry. I'm not going into the city like this.' As I get up from my armchair, I feel every aching joint protest. Been sitting down far too long. I still ask, without turning to Sherlock: 'Can't Mycroft get me an antidote?'

Sherlock whispers: 'Been trying to get hold of my brother. He's playing hard to find, assuming he got me... You know Mycroft. You used to find us funny.'

'Yeah.' I fake a sterile smile. Needn't worry Sherlock more than he already is.

As I come back into the living room a short while after, Sherlock is more controlled, setting order on his stacks of paper. He tells me, without facing the old man I am now: 'I asked Lestrade to bring the child over, John.'

'Well, I can't help now.' Lestrade knows that, right? They both know that...

'I know', Sherlock tells me regretfully. 'It's his sister', he adds. Just that. I know when his silents are the most important.

'What about the boy's sister?'

'The kidnappers still have her. They took both but let the boy out so he could convey the message for money as ransom.' I close my eyes, feeling for those kids. It's terrible.

'Can't he lead us back to them?'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'The Yard tried it all. He just can't remember any important details. Not now, at least. He's understandingly scared.'

'If I was a kid I could talk to him without being so intimidating', I recall Sherlock's earlier plan. _Won't happen now._

Sherlock nods. 'He's still a scared little boy, feeling guilty he can't get his sister home.'

'And Lestrade will bring him over?' I recall.

'Lestrade's desperate. We all are.'

I nod, understanding. 'What can I do, Sherlock?' I ask sincerely. _I want to help._

'_Sprechen du Deutch?_'

'Sorry?' I frown. What was that?

'Learning a foreign language helps keep the brain active. Don't say No, John. We don't want _this_ to be a reality soon enough.' He means when I'm old for real.

I roll my eyes. 'Seriously, Sherlock? You want me to learn German?'

'_Genau._ Not to worry, John, it becomes easier after the first eight languages!' he smiles brilliantly and walks away, leaving me behind on my armchair.

_**.**_

'How's your long-term memory, John?'

_Jeess-! Sherlock, you've frightened me!_ I was nodding off when you came back and drilled me that question!

I grump as my heart rate slows down. 'As good as ever.'

'Hum', he depreciates quietly.

'My memory is unaffected, Sherlock!' I protest at once, going heated once again.

' "Butter" ', he pronounces quietly. _Oh, nice! One thing, Sherlock, one thing!_

'I got confused, that's all.' Angrily, I turn the page on the newspaper. Not that I can read it any more than the headlines. Needless to say I'll need good glasses on my old age. Sherlock thought I was confused when I talked to his hanged up coat earlier. I was convinced it was his outline in the dimmed light room.

At first, I fought hard this idea that I'll be a demented old man. Now I've come to accept it. I'm a GP, I know what it's like, I know how hard it'll be.

For Sherlock, however, I know it's still a scary reality. That one day, in his own old age, I'll not be fully around to be there for him. I'll be a bloody mess that can't help himself, let alone others. I'll be lucky in any day I can keep an ounce of my dignity intact. But you see, by then Sherlock won't need me anymore. He hardly does just one day into my condition.

'Can you remember our work together fully, John?'

I nod, patiently. I can remember the Work, the war, med school, even my Christmas mornings with my parents, better then I recall having breakfast. Did I have breakfast already?...

I look over my shoulder to the kitchen, making an effort to think it through.

'Porridge, John. Oatmeal porridge. One hour ago.'

_Thanks, Sherlock._

'Right... And your case, how's it going?'

He shrugs as an answer, very un-Sherlock-like. The man who has an answer to everything has just evaded my question. 'Letrade will come. He's not convinced, however. We need to pull on a show, and get a solution. We're running out of time as it is.'

'How did you convince Lestrade?' I recall our friend wanting Sherlock's attention focused on me.

'Told him it'd distract you, make you feel useful.'

I smirk. That's Sherlock, alright. Always working multiple angles.

'Yes, it will.'

He turns to me with surprised imprinted in his features. Genuine surprise, I can tell. Then he faces me sternly. 'You're a hundred years old and you want to waste your time with me and this case?'

'Yes', I realise, dropping the age comment's rebuttal at once. _I feel a hundred years old._

'I'm never going to fully understand why', he confesses, under cover of my confusion status.

Only I'm not as confused as before. _I care because we're friends. That's what friends do, Sherlock. _I sigh. I'm feeling old, as if all the time I've spent with Sherlock Holmes had been bloody useless.

'I haven't been looking at the case, John', Sherlock confesses, abruptly.

I frown. All the graphs, the data printed out in countless pieces of paper... then again, how did he foresee my dehydration this morning? Then it dawns on me. He wasn't going over the case, he was studying my "confusion", trying to find a solution to a nature's process.

_If someone would ever find a definite fix for this, it'd be Sherlock Holmes._ I can't help but to smile, thankful of his kind faithful nature, of the challenge he's taken on – for me.

_**.**_

He's a scared little boy, and as honest as they come.

Reminds me of him at that age, slingshot in my back pocket, always ready to get into trouble to defend my sister. I always drove the stupid kids away, that could already sense she was different, and she'd often punch me when only the two of us remained behind. "What was that for?!" "I don't need a boy's help!" she'd cream back at me, leaving me puzzled.

Chandler, this boy, is smiling a bit, for the first time. I've hardly noticed how I've started telling him my old stories, and we're bonding over the grief our sisters give us. And how we still care so much, even though we can't stand them around.

'She was crying the whole way', he tells me, looking brave. I understand he insisted on playing tough, promising her it'd be okay. Possibly even telling her she was being a crying baby, but ready to get into trouble to keep her safe.

'Didn't the bad guys get crossed with the noise?' I worry, thinking about how snappy kidnappers usually are.

'There were other noises', he tells me. 'We got there when the church bell was ringing. My sister gets noisy when she's hungry', he tells me in his own logic. 'I saw it was noon on the man's wristwatch. And she cried a lot. I kept singing to her to calm her down. Mum used to do that when she was a baby. I sang "silent night" three times to her. That's the only song I know all the words, because I had to sing it at the school play at Christmas. They didn't think it was too much noise. But then there was thunder, and all the floor shook, and it went on forever. That's when they told us to be quiet.'

I knew the rest of the story. I knew that shortly after they took them apart from each other and sent Chandler as the message boy of his own kidnapping. So I didn't ask. He just went quiet and then came over to me, trusting sad eyes on mine. I hugged him caringly, trying to make all the wrongs right for him. If only I could.

Greg came back to the living room, looking tense. 'We need to go, Chandler', he says kindly, even though there are still signs of strain from what I'd guess was an argument with Sherlock in the back room of 221B.

'Be brave', I mutter to the little boy, feeling helpless. So much more helpless now than any other time that my old age sprung on me. When I look back on my troubles, they are meaningless. Fixing Chandler's world should be Sherlock's only focus. I can go through a weekend as a confused old man.

As Greg and the little boy are leaving, Sherlock comes over to me with two cups of tea.

'I'm not dehydrated, Sherlock', I point out.

'You will be if you continue to—' he cuts himself short with a knowledgeable look and I finally realise there's a fresh tear running down my cheek. _I feel so helpless to help._

'It's the old age, Sherlock. I'm okay', I assure him, smudging the evidence on my cheek.

He nods like he doesn't believe me and takes up an exhausted seat in his armchair, facing me. He's sulking in silence as he sips his tea from time to time, and I soon start to nod off. It's only as he gets up in a startle that I refocus on my friend, surprised.

'What...?' I mumble.

'He said it, John!' Sherlock protests, uncontained. 'He said it! The little boy said where they are!'

I frown. I was there, I was the one talking to the frightened kid, and I didn't hear it.

Amid his aimless walk, Sherlock notices in a glance that I'm not following. With no less impatience than he usually reserves for me – as if he finds me clever enough to follow at his speed – he over pronounces angrily: 'He said he heard the train, John. That was the thunderous noise and the floor shaking. The train past overhead. He thought it was a thunder, so there was an empty space under it, for the sound to get distorted. They were held under a railway bridge, an old one with a railway line still working!'

'But there are plenty of those, Sherlock.'

My friend rolls his eyes one more time. 'We know the time, John. Forgot that too? John, cross the railway journey timetables that have lines that—' he stops on his tracks all of a sudden, his gaze saddening. _I'm usually his help for the boring research work, while he keeps deducing freely._ 'Never you mind, I can do this myself, John. But just this once. Don't make a habit out of it. I need an assistant!'

I fight my way through a dismayed smile.

'We're going to find this little boy's sister, John. We're all she's got.'

'There's Scotland Yard', I remind him, cutting through the solemn moment.

'They've had the case longer than us and what did they come up with?' he despises. Then, suddenly, he focuses back. 'Right, railway bridges over brick constructions from fifty to seventy years ago. Disused, close to a city centre yet far enough for their activity to go unnoticed...' He closes his eyes in a mental effort. 'Three hundred forty-seven locations, give or take.'

'Too many', I say out loud before I can help myself.

'Too many', he agrees with a nod. 'Which have a long course cargo train past then at precisely nine minutes past noon on a Friday?' he closes his eyes again, even tighter this time. Finally he snaps them open, raising his brows, dilating his green eyes, letting his mouth fall open. _He knows where, he's got it._

As the seconds go by in silence, I see him struggle to come up with a plan. It dawns on me that his plan won't include me. He then launches himself to the shelves by his armchair, chucking books over his shoulder to the floor, looking for one in particular. He's looking for a detailed city map.

'Sherlock, where—?'

'No time, John!' he brushes me off easily.

'You're not going alone!' I remind him.

He unfolds a huge map and finds his target at once. 'Got it!' he blurts, relieved. 'Be right back, John! Make yourself at home, don't wait up!'

I watch him leave, feeling helpless to help him in what is about to be a very dangerous solo mission.

'Sherlock!' I still call after him, to no avail.

_**.**_

Sherlock's been gone half-an-hour now. He won't answer his phone or reply to my text messages. I tried Mycroft as well, but he's still ignoring me.

I've come to the kitchen to do myself a cup of tea, hoping the homemade remedy can calm my nerves. But so far it has only got me more agitated. I came to realise that instead of using the electric kettle I decided to boil the water on the stove. It's taking forever.

Maybe I should give it up and go for the kettle.

It should be somewhere under all of Sherlock's messiness. I move the science equipment and papers about, not really knowing where to put them. Mostly shifting locations, really.

That's when I notice the greyish smoke filling the kitchen. _What have I done now?_ Dropped Sherlock's papers over the slighted stove. The fire alarm goes off at once, with its loud noise and sprinkler shower. I get out of there as fast as I can, into the living room so I don't get wet again. Anyway, the fire got put out by the water.

Next minute, there are heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. I'm taken aback by the two men in suits that tackle the kitchen with fire extinguishers in the streamlined efficiency of a practised routine, followed by Anthea. She was the assistant in the car at the first of Mycroft's kidnappings. _He calls them polite conversations._ Instantly I'm not so worried anymore.

With a distant I-don't-really-care look around and then back to me, Anthea resumes: 'Will this be all, Doctor Watson?'

_Actually, no._ 'I could use a ride.'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	83. Chapter 83

_A/N: __So, for context, John has been turned into a very old man._

_It's a bit long, sorry. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part Three / Last Part .**_

Anthea seems unaffected by my last hours' makeover, as she leads me to Mycroft Holmes' office. Truth be told, she seems more concerned about whatever she's seeing in her phone than any other thing away from it. As we walk in to the familiar office, once again the confined space reminds me of a Second World War underground bunker, with its concrete walls and its bare essentials for furniture around. The space is posh and well-kept, a too perfect façade for the humble civil servant of the Queen. It has always been the incongruous lack of misplaced elements that got to me. Nothing is unexpected, not at the desk or on top of a filling cabinet. No forgotten item to be filled away. No keepsake from a treasured time, perhaps.

At the Clinic I've got a teddy bear. It was a present from a very young patient with a terminal illness. At first I selfishly wished I wouldn't have received that gift, given my blunt failure to set him right – it was too far advanced. Never managed to store away the toy in a drawer either. It keeps me grounded. It helps keep the long days in perspective, telling me that there will be more, and that in all of them there is something I do that matters to someone, even when I'm thinking that I'm failing.

I guess that's the difference. I allow my emotions to counsel me in my decision making. Mycroft allows himself none of that. It may be my temporary old age, but I can't help feel for Mycroft. Somewhere in his mind palace – or whatever he calls his own version of it – I hope he keeps a teddy bear or two, the ones he won't allow out here.

With a tired sigh I slump to the guest's chair in front of Mycroft's desk. He's still playing important, shuffling letters in his hands before he looks at me. Anthea leaves quietly behind me.

'Hello, John.'

I fake a smile. 'You don't seem surprised as you see me. What do I need to do to surprise a Holmes?'

He smiles enigmatically. 'Don't overdo it', he advises cryptically. 'How's the old age treating you?'

'There's too much paperwork to get a senior citizen discount on the tube... Aren't you going to ask how I got this way?'

'I fear I already know', he replies, bored.

'You wanted Sherlock to be old', I accuse, directly.

'Yes', Mycroft admits, basking on his secret brilliancy.

'You wanted Sherlock to be like this.' With all the honesty I can muster I point at myself from head to toe. _Old, frail, lost, confused. Helpless._

Mycroft is pondering me with his hands clasped together in front of his face. He finally opens them apart. 'I knew he wouldn't be alone, John. I knew he had you.'

'Sherlock, your little brother. The man who calls himself a genius and uses that as an excuse to be unreachable, distant from the rest of us. The man who disapproves of a casual social touch that doesn't originate from him or Mrs Hudson (at the most!). You must have known this would drive him crazy, not being able to rely on his brain, the ultimate weapon he uses to keep himself safe and sane. And yet, knowing all that, you swapped those serums, Mycroft.'

The formal man in a three piece suit in front of me rolls his eyes. 'Well, it would have taught him not to steal stuff from my scientists, John', he defends, in a he-did-it-first logic.

I sigh. _Like two toddlers._ Two of the most intelligent and influential people in all of London and they are _bloody_ toddlers!

Reading me easily, Mycroft cuts to the point: 'What did you come here for, doctor Watson?'

I hesitate, his question throwing me momentarily off-track. _What was it again?_ Meantime, I mumble, trying to sound confident: 'Though you wanted to see what I look like now.'

Mycroft seems to be having trouble to conceal his amusement. The man who upholds secrets that could churn nations to the ground can't hide his childish glee at the effects of his stolen serum.

'So, you were my brother's guinea pig again, John', he tells me, over polite. 'Not to worry, there are no _pronounced_ side effects of this serum.'

I grunt. _I'll be the judge of that._ Besides, I doubt he knows. Mycroft is just easing my worries.

Well, he did mean it for Sherlock. And despite their legendary sibling rivalry, I don't think he'd permanently harm his baby brother. At least not without being present to gain some satisfaction out of it.

'Yes, I'm old, Sherlock is himself', I reply tiredly. Being old gives me little patience to repeat myself. Now I remember what I came here for, I summarise it in a shout: 'Stop wasting time, Mycroft, and turn me back!' _And there go the last firing synapses in my brain's inhibition's centres. _Didn't mean to be so rude and now I don't care how it came out.

He opens his arms, posture still unattainable. 'I'm no scientist, John. How do you expect me to do that?'

'Call them, then! Threaten them, bribe them, whatever fancies you the most! I need to go back to who I am in 2015. Sherlock could be in danger. In fact, I'm fairly sure he went to get himself into trouble and I'm the only one who can help without getting in the way. But for that I need to be able to hold a gun steady.'

Mycroft despises, as he gets up: 'There'll be no shootings, doctor Watson. Always so trigger friendly!' he muses. 'No, you wait patiently for the drugs to wear off. You are not my only pawn in the game, you know.'

I'm not his pawn. I move at my own will. No matter the god-like complex of the two Holmes, they can hardly predict me fully.

Slowly I take my gun out of my pocket and holding it in my hands I gently let a finger rest lightly on the trigger. I keep holding the cold steel gun as if it was a completely harmless piece of artwork. Mycroft Holmes' calculating gaze is on me now, as me ponders me.

'You know the trouble about old age, Mycroft? And I've seen this often as a GP. Old people – I mean: old enough people – don't really measure the consequences of their actions. Sometimes they do things they wouldn't have done in their entire lives.'

The older Holmes takes a slow seat behind his desk. Can't tell if his frightened or mesmerised by the former soldier bluffing right in his face.

'Say it, John. You would shoot me. But then what? You still wouldn't have the antidote.'

I chuckle out of the blue. 'Yeah, but it'd be fun, get it?'

Clenching his jaw, Mycroft glares at me. 'I can see what my brother sees in you, doctor Watson. I'm partial to believe that deep inside Sherlock wouldn't want you to shoot me; Mummy would be ever so crossed... I'll give you what you want, John... And so you know', he adds, getting up to go to the cabinet by the wall, 'I'd have given you the antidote if you had just bluffed you'd go to the papers with your story. Cleaning up the story from the media after you and Sherlock is such a bother...' he shakes his head dramatically like only a Holmes can, in front of a loaded gun.

_Oh._ Didn't think of the papers.

I'll use that one next time. _Thanks, Mycroft!_

It's like he's just given me a code word to cut through the meaningless chitchat. I must have earned some respect from the overly rational man... by being demented.

Or maybe because this is meant for me to stand by Sherlock, again.

'And, John?' he starts to add, handing me a small colourless glass vial.

'Yes?'

'You don't need to go along with all the scientific experiments my brother tries on you.'

I feel myself blush violently. Yeah, it would save Mycroft and I both a whole lot of trouble.

'John, just 50 millilitres of that – half the vial's content – will lower your age enough. Don't cause me more trouble by doing it wrong', he asks tiredly.

I copy his smirk, much less amused on my side. He moves on to the door to call Anthea and get me a lift back to 221B. I look down at the harmless looking vial with a sigh. _Damn the lack of proper firing synapses, I must be going insane._

_**.**_

It's not a magic trick. Well, it is, but it's not instantaneous. It takes time.

Mycroft, I noticed, seems to believe I can drink half the vial and just get it over with, no need for caution or supervision. Nothing about having it on a full stomach like Sherlock always insisted, or about seating down comfortably and trying to sleep the transformation through. That Mycroft would be the unreasonable one is a surprise. But then again, I did hold him at gunpoint. He'd be fine with me getting a huge headache from this, or growing one arm longer than the other, anything can happen. Can't think about it, made my decision already, need to stick by it. Besides, I have no time for doubt. As Anthea is dropping me off in a prepaid cab to Baker Street I slump into the back seat and wave her off. The cab pulls away at once.

_I'm missing Sherlock here in the cab ride with me. _Ordinarily, I won't take cabs alone. It's always with Sherlock. During the time he was away – all of the two years – I never took a cab anywhere. It was too painful. This brings back raw memories, that I strive to keep away. Sherlock is alive and I get to see him again.

The cab drives off and I'm holding the vial in my hand. 'Cheers, Sherlock', I murmur before swallowing my portion.

_This might be too little too late if you don't smarten up, Captain Watson! _It's the senior citizen's league of one to the rescue. It's amazing how Sherlock always needs rescue. In truth, I do too and he's always there for me as well.

'There's an extra fifty for you on top of the fare if you take me to another place instead', I tell the driver. Luckily, he's up for it at once.

_**.**_

I can tell my hands are steadying, my mind is more focused, and what I pulled off in Mycroft's office fills me both with excitement and shame. Therefore, the antidote must be working.

We're arriving at the old brick building in the outskirts, where a railway track crosses over and a train shoots past at nine minutes past midday on a Friday. _I guess I cheated. I had a look at the map Sherlock consulted and figured where he had been studying it. I saw the hard earned solution for I had no time to try to compete with Sherlock Holmes._

I pay the cabbie as I exit the vehicle. One last glance at my reflection at the review mirror places me well into retirement age, but not so perilously over aged for a gun showdown.

_This is it, John. Time to settle once and for all if the confusion is likely to stay, post-serum effect._ I chuckle; Sherlock would appreciate it somewhat, given what I just did to Mycroft.

My knees are more compliant as I duck slightly to race through the open ground, ready to infiltrate the abandoned building. Just in case I'm not up to scratch, I send Greg Lestrade a hurried text message begging him to backup Sherlock at this location. He'll come. Greg is a good man.

The brick construction was probably meant as a warehouse at the time of construction. It wraps around each leg of the bridge it supports. There is a thin connection between the two wings, but right now I need to choose which side looks more prone to having kidnapped children and genius detectives in it. In a fifty-fifty chances world where speed is paramount, I chose the closest one and keep my arthritic fingers crossed. That is, on my left hand, that is not already holding up a gun.

I force my entrance through the front door. A long stairwell ahead of me. Figures! My old age is going to be tested all the way to the end. I take a deep breath and hurry up the wooden steps, cringing as some of them creak under my weight.

Like a maniac man, I go in and out of every empty room along the way up – no signs of Sherlock. It's at the last room that I catch a fleeting movement at the corner of my eye. I snap my head to that direction. It's a window. What I saw is beyond it. What I saw is Sherlock held at gunpoint in the other half of the building. _I choose the wrong door._

_Again. It happened the same in the pink lady's case, when I first met Sherlock._

I'm going for the same insane solution, I realise, as I stand solid on my parted legs, holding my arm up, steadying my breathing. It never comes as a win, this shooting people dead business. It comes with a price. But this is Sherlock. And an innocent child. May she keep her innocence because I've long lost mine. I accept my hell.

I hesitate. It's not the old age. It's that I don't want to shoot unless there is really no way out. _Come on, Sherlock, give me a hint._ Tell me it's that time. The scene is getting more agitated, I can tell.

Sherlock drops his arms in defeat and the fingertips I hold against the gun are tingling. That's when I first see the child. A little girl with a princess tiara on her hair, taking cover by Sherlock's side. In front of them one armed man with an evil grin and a gun. This is it, Sherlock.

I shoot. But not to the criminal. I couldn't do that in front of a child, could I?

The bullet crashes against two window panes, acquiring some distortion along the axis, not enough to miss its intended target straight above the criminal. I just shot down a chandelier from the ceiling, that falls down on top of the man. Immediately he crashes to the ground, losing his gun. I'm left to watch powerless from my window, as Sherlock immediately takes control of the gun and assures he's out of action, then hugs the scared little girl tight. Only then he calmly looks through the window, already knowledgeably smiling as he searches me in the shadows of the adjacent building. It's as if he recognised the shooter by instinct. _It had to be John Watson, right, Sherlock? Only John Watson saves you like this, Sherlock._

I wave to Sherlock. _Hello!_

Finally I go back out to start all over again and chose the right door, only this time without being in such a hurry. I may be younger, getting towards my real age, but this saving Sherlock business is tiresome.

_**.**_

Greg would come around only when I managed to clear the girl out medically. She's a bit frightened, but luckily that was all the bad experience she got out of this. Greg takes one look at the tied up criminal, then to the healthy little girl, before turning to his men and demanding: 'Wrap this up, guys!' Finally looking less stressed, he comments: 'You look more of yourself, John. I guess this means you are fit for Q&amp;A time at the Yard!'

I smirk. Fine, but Mycroft will sponge off sections of my statement from the records anyway.

Sherlock is following me and the girl at once. Greg gestures him to stop. 'Not done with you yet, Sherlock!'

He fakes an overbearing polite smile. 'You are, Lestrade. I'm not leaving those two alone.'

'They are going to Scotland Yard.'

'Then so am I, inspector. Anything I didn't tell you, you can gather from the scene. Just do your job. I'll be carrying on with mine.'

I realise he means he'll keep on protecting the little girl until she's reunited with her brother and family. In a second thought, he probably also means me, in the same protection reasoning.

_**.**_

We're having a private conversation at Scotland Yard, in a room with just the two of us, a sleeping soundly boy and a joyous little girl. In fact, the girl seems to be on the good road to recovery, with a giggling laughter and a set in stone passion for princesses. After clumping together sections of Sherlock's black curly hair and tying them with pink silken ribbons she's now facing my short (blondish again) hair like a tough challenge to solve. In the end she takes her own plastic tiara from her hair and places it on top of my messy head. She steps back with a big grin on her face.

Sherlock and I cross gazes and we both minutely shrug at the same time.

No matter how much of a hardened soldier, one doesn't disappoint a four year old that has been through so much.

'I could have forgotten you needed help, Sherlock, just as easily as I forgot Lestrade's first name', I try to warn him. He does trust me too much sometimes. Sherlock seems taken aback by my words, but just as he hears them he shrugs them off.

'No, John, of that I'm sure.'

'Do you even realise how arrogant you come across as sometimes?' I'm not sure if I find it funny and reassuring, or if I still worry for my friend's social skills.

'Don't see why' and he shrugs it off, unimportant. 'Just so you know, I mean that you don't forget any of your friends. Not just me. Although for entirely selfish reasons it's the latter that I fully appreciate. John, I may still get baffled by some things you do, some ways you are who you are. But this I know for sure. John Watson will always come to a friend's aid. He wouldn't forget it.'

I sigh, feeling deflated. 'Sherlock, you're the scientist here. Surely you understand what the consequences of—' He fully ignores me, like a petulant kid. He reaches out to his long coat and grabs a Rubik's cube from his pocket, and he's twisting it away in his agile fingers.

'Go on...' he says, without even looking at me, as soon as he senses I've stopped.

'Sherlock, are you listening?' I protest. He stills and a challenging light flashes across his features.

'You're about to try to persuade me that you haven't visited your sister in rehab every couple of days this last week, twice of those times after consecutive double shifts at the Clinic. Or that your common procedure when ending double shifts is not a swift approach to your bed and lights off for the next twelve hours. You might even deny phoning her doctor in the rehab centre and collectively tailoring her treatment for maximum chances of efficacy. That's something she'll never know, by the way. Probably because you recall that she wouldn't house you when you came back to London, deployed from action, and think she doesn't want you so close in her life, more probably because you don't believe that a generous act should be publicised. Most of all, you are about to attempt to make me believe that _it just happened_ and no one has anything to thank you for.

I blink. Repeatedly. 'Sherlock...'

'Yes, you taught me this. Can't go around asking me to disregard it now.'

_Sociopath he's not. He knew all of this before I came along._

I smile, as I look away shyly.

'And how much of the antidote did you slip into my brother's drink?' Sherlock asks me with an amused light in his eyes.

'What?' I startle back.

'Or laced his piece of cake, or something like that, John. I know why my brother won't answer his phone. I know why the vial is completely empty, John, when 50 millilitres would suffice.'

I bite my lip, feeling guilty. Instinct would have me looking down on my shoes but I fight it to look up at my smiling friend.

'Your brother might be about seven years old now', I confess.

'Lovely!' his smile turns wicked.

'No, it's _not good_, Sherlock.'

He gestures freely and inconsequentially. 'Oh, you were old and demented, and a lot of fun, John. Never mind it!'

' "Confused", Sherlock, I preferred when you called it "confused".'

With one last impish chuckle, Sherlock assures me: 'You never cease to amaze me, John. One day, when we're old and retired, I hope you come around often.'

That's an odd thing to say, but a nice feeling to have. I nod, in a solemn promise. I know that no matter what, Sherlock and I will always be there for each other.

_**.**_


	84. Chapter 84

_**.**_

'Sherlock?'

'Hm?...' he answers me from 221B's kitchen table, dwelling on his chemistry experiments. Luckily it's not a foul smelling one. So far.

I look around the side of my armchair in the living room and wait for my friend to glance back at me. This might take a while. Even Mrs Hudson has given up tidying all around him and left already. Our inventive genius is really absorbed in his work.

'Sherlock?' I try again.

He clanks the conical flask on the table indignantly. 'Go on, John', he tells me, short-patiently. 'You have been going on with the newspaper's crosswords. It's a small print paper that you grabbed yesterday while going on a work training day. Not your _real work_ \- there are no training days for what we do - just the one at the clinic.'

'The one that pays my bills', I remind him, keeping all my composure.

'This crosswords exercise is taking you longer to solve than usual. This could mean that you are particularly slow-witted today - it happens, I've seen it, especially when you've just woken up - or that it doesn't come with solutions. This last one is the most likely scenario. Now adding the fact that you can be extremely stubborn - as demonstrated by the fact that you still won't give me a pint of your blood for my experiments, but not to worry, I know where you sleep...'

He's smirking, delighted. I frown, in a captain Watson dare. His smile breaks and he plays hurt.

'All this adds up', Sherlock carries on, 'to you wanting my help solving the crosswords.'

I shrug, unaffected by his deducing monologue.

'Well, you're the genius here, Sherlock.'

'Indeed I am', he senses nothing wrong.

'Any clues on the solar system I can answer those myself, shall I?'

He gets up all of a sudden, chemistry forgotten. 'What did you just say? You called them"clues", John.'

_Noticed that, did you?_ I hide my smirk and, instead, shrug. 'Call them whatever you like, Sherlock... Two, vertical: "deadly lady of the night, known for her perfume", nine letters. Was this one of your cases?' I ask suspiciously.

The genius is engaged all falls for it at once. 'Hardly, John!' he braces out in exasperation. 'Botanic. The answer you are looking for is "belladonna", aka "deadly nightshade", the beautiful lady of the night. A plant I've encountered in a few cases, with devastating consequences.'

As a doctor, I can gather as much. 'Yeah...' I mutter, as I fill it in. 'Eight vertical: "London's historical market hit by a fire in 2008".'

'Camden market, John! Surely you remember this, John!'

'Wasn't even in London in 2008.' Only when I see his taken aback expression honestly facing mine do I realise I had reverted unconsciously to the captain Watson stare. Apologetically I look down to the paper in my hand.

'Kandahar?' he asks me softly, as a confidence.

'Helmond, first', I answer in the same tone.

'I see.'

'Seven across: "Japanese sixteen hundred hours". Is this some sort of festival?'

'Time fuses, John. Eight AM in the UK.'

'Oh.' I take a note of it in the correct boxes. 'You are going through this really fast, Sherlock. Maybe you should do crosswords, not me. Being a detective and a genius, after all.'

'Hardly, John! There's no deductive reasoning to crosswords, just a mismatched collection of facts required, some word associations, and a few celebrity gossips that you've been so kind to spare me of today, John. I hardly care about a foreign diplomat's visit to London...'

I frown; how is that celebrity gossip again?

This is when I realise Sherlock's now standing right behind me, looking over my armchair to the paper in my hand. Suddenly he gasps and snatches the paper from me. Trance-like, he's muttering at once: 'Five across: "meeting". One across: "bring". Three across: "four". Six vertical: "captain". Two vertical: "treasure". John, have you seen this? No, no, forget that. You've seen it, but you didn't observe it properly, you never do. There is a hidden message here, John! When you alternate across and vertical in numerical order, it reads: "Bring treasure four belladonna. Meeting captain eight AM, Camden." John, this is...' His light green eyes are open wide and finally he stills, mind racing fast.

I snatch the paper back from his hands and revise his findings. As I expected, he's absolutely right. 'This is a ransom note', I state demurely. 'Someone is being asked to bring money for a beautiful lady's sake. They'll meet a captain at eight o'clock at the maker... Sherlock, this is yesterday's paper!'

He grabs his coat. 'No time to waste, John! No time to challenge your mind with petty clues and filling letters on prearranged boxes, _just drop it, John!_ There's a better mystery out there for us to solve, and possibly a life to save! It's almost eight o'clock now!' And with that statement Sherlock is running out 221B's door. I follow him swiftly, daring smile spreading in my face.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: As explicitly demonstrated, crosswords are not my forte. Might be why my mind wandered off to this little piece.  
__In all fairness, I had to come back to correct a mistake I made in my own crosswords' "clues". Sorry! -csf_


	85. Chapter 85

_A/N: Unfinished for now, we'll see how it goes. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part One .**_

'For the love of— Whatever you do, just don't drop it, John! Don't shake it, don't squeeze it— In fact, don't even breathe.' In front of me, the great Sherlock Holmes and my good friend, usually so loquacious, is reduced to a babbling mess. I can't blame him. Still... _he's not the one holding the bomb in his hands._

_**.**_

Five minutes ago, I was having breakfast at 221B. A case had run late and I had taken the sofa instead of a second cab home. A decision I'd may come to regret later... I was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for my toast to pop, Sherlock was engaged in some sort of scientific experiment designed to determine the heavy metal content in chocolate (at last a nice smelling experiment at 221B!), when the door bell rang downstairs. I looked up from the newspaper, tiredly.

'Mrs Hudson will get it', Sherlock interjected at once.

I got up with one last slip of my tea. 'She's out of town for a couple of days, Sherlock. How many times...?' I sigh for his laziness. 'I'll go and get it, it's fine.'

'I know it is', he still comments, deeply engaged in his chocolate.

_I saw that, Sherlock! As I turned my back, you ate a piece of the sample!_

I was smirking all the way downstairs. As I opened the door there was no one there. Only a small harmless-looking parcel on the step. Immediately I grabbed it off the floor.

_It said "Sherlock Holmes", so out of an old habit I opened it._

_That's when I saw the bomb inside._ An innocent sounding _tick_ and it was triggered, I just knew it.

I turned to yell to Sherlock to get the hell out of 221B, the street, London, or just _there_, but of course he had already sensed something was wrong. Sherlock stood frozen in shock at the top of the first flight of stairs.

_And he knew it too, at once._ No unnecessary talk.

'Whatever you do, John, hold it steady', he told me in a crackling voice.

_**.**_

There would be no glamorous diffusing of a secretly delivered bomb. Too dangerous and I wouldn't let Sherlock try. Because it'd endanger him too, and I wouldn't be responsible for that. And I was never in bomb disposal, I'm a doctor.

_This time, Sherlock, there is no off-switch._

In fact, Sherlock is quite sure there are two wires that can't touch each other inside this see-through glass box. Really weird bomb, like a signature. If Sherlock has recognised the author, he won't tell me. Since I grabbed the package, he won't tell me much.

So, in the end, Mycroft Holmes sealed the street and evacuated the residents, shop owners and costumers. The usually busy street has been turned eerily desert to its two central observers, or forced spectators. We saw the first assessment made by the bomb squad in Mycroft's top team. They came to confirm that the device was rigged to explode (as if I had never seen explosive devices before, in all those missions stationed abroad) and they told us a bunch of banalities about keeping calm and hopeful. They also tried to drag Sherlock away, in good old-fashioned common sense, given that he wasn't holding a bomb himself, until they gave up because he was contemptuously ignoring their well-intended pleas. He sat by my side on 221B's door step, as soon as he saw me taking a seat, package still outstretched in my hands.

'Will you get John Watson a tea? John didn't get to finish his. The bomber was quite rude... Maybe with a straw would be better?'

I smile, but say nothing.

I'm not really scared — not as much as I should be, given the impending circumstances — I notice, as we are now sitting down by the sidewalk, just chilling out, on all accounts.

As I'm holding the bomb and waiting for bomb disposal's technical decisions, Sherlock and I watch it all unfold with a certain lazy boredom.

'Just so you know, John, I'd hold it for you.'

I glance at my friend. He means the explosives, and the metaphorical load they carry, weighing me down. I nod; I know he would do that for me.

'Your brother would freak out if he saw that in the cctv footage', I point out.

Sherlock nods, pensive, then slowly waves his hand hello to a cornered camera across the street.

'Pressure sensors', he adds, in case I didn't notice them on the sides of the seemingly ordinary package, that the bomb squad stripped down to a glass box with intricate mechanics inside.

'I know.'

'I am sorry, you know. It was, after all, addressed to me, John.'

'I'm not.'

He frowns. 'Not—, what?'

'Not sorry. When my arms get tired, if I get tired, if this doesn't have an answer, Sherlock, you can walk away, it's okay.'

He shakes his head in desperation, and falls silent again. I sigh, and missing our previous talk, I divert: 'Did you have the time to finish your chocolate experiment?'

'Not yet. I'm testing all 471 types of chocolate available for sale in the UK.'

'Surely you're not tasting them all...' I depreciate.

'It's a valid investigative toll and I keep accurate description records of every—'

'It's not healthy', I interrupt, 'that much chocolate, that's what it is.'

He huffs a little.

'...John?'

'Yes...?'

'I need you to tell me these things.'

I roll my eyes to better disguise a pang of emotion.

'It's common sense, Sherlock. You don't need me.' _Well, for common sense alone he just might, _I realise.

'You're my only blogger', he says, looking away.

'No, you've git plenty of others. Just take a good look around.' Watch the telly, read the fiction.

'Not quite like you.'

I shake my head, feeling touched. _Substitute "blogger" for "good friend", John._

'Well, we can't let this explode, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson would be mad at us.'

He smirks. 'Don't have anyone else to do me a deal on the rent either.'

'You can afford full rent now, with all your success.'

'I already do full rent', he confides, and at first I think he means waving off Mrs Hudson kindness, if she'd ever have it. Then I realise it also means I left Baker Street and he had to take possession of my part of the rent.

_Well, I paid Mrs H rent the two years you were gone, Sherlock._

'Why didn't you find someone else to share Baker Street with you, Sherlock?'

He smirks. 'Mike Stanford didn't know any other retired army doctors with a thrill for danger.'

I smirk along. 'But you know my life has moved on. I mean, I still need to be a part of this, but... it's not the same as it was.'

He nods, slowly. 'I've noticed, John.'

'I mean... it's less than what it was, Sherlock. Can you accept that? Can you settle for less?'

Sherlock is frowning at me like one would at a mischievous but beloved child. It irks me at once, as he expected.

'You still think it'll be the same again', I read him.

'I know it will', he tells me, full of blind trust. 'Eventually.'

I just shake my head. Holding a lethal bomb in my hands, I couldn't wish to be anywhere else.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	86. Chapter 86

_(A/N) Context: John is holding a bomb in his hands, as he and Sherlock sit patiently at 221 Baker Street's doorstep, waiting for the bomb disposal team's decisions. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part Two .**_

'Mary.'

'What?' I startle. _You might not want to do that to me at this time, Sherlock._

'I blamed Mary at first. No, don't look at me like that, John. You wouldn't know. It didn't last long. I blamed Mary because she had you, and I didn't.'

'I'm not a property!' I rebut, stunned. He nods.

'That's why I had to respect your decision of leaving Baker Street.'

'I didn't leave!' I tell him angrily. 'You did! I was perfectly happy!' For a moment my own words leave me perplex. 'I didn't mean to leave', I correct. 'I thought it was over. This. Our work together, our adventures. Then, yes, I left, because I couldn't stand to stay behind alone. What was I supposed to do?' I ask him directly in no more than a mere whisper. When I realise he's struggling to respond, I prefer to joke: 'Open my own consulting detective agency in 221B? I'm not like you, Sherlock.'

He sighs. 'I thought you'd wait.'

'I did, but not for long as it took.'

'John, I...'

'It's okay, Sherlock. I like what we have now, these little lost moments. It feels like the old days again.'

He nods. _He feels it too._

As if in a mutual understanding we both look at the street and the organised police work. Men in heavily padded body-armour suits walk in and out of a thick steel van. Further down the road, a police line keeps a safe distance for the general public. There are ordinary people beyond the blue and white stripped line, morbid curiosity grounding them to the spot. For now Mycroft Holmes has managed to keep the major news chains away from here, but word must be spreading fast. Sherlock's name always attracts the crowds. People comment, and point, and take pictures of us. Some of those pictures might have made it online already, I realise, as I see Sherlock taking out his phone and scrolling down the local news app.

'Sherlock, will you shut that phone down!' I get angry at once. 'I have a bomb in my hands! That thing emits radiations, and sparks, and whatnot, that can set this off!'

'Nonsense. We are not at A&amp;E or a petrol station, John. It's perfectly safe to have my phone on.'

'Airplanes!' I remind him, indignantly.

'Biggest danger on a plane is of highjacks, and I can't really highjack a bomb, John', he comments, to then frown. 'I wonder if Mycroft's computer geeks ever thought of a highjacking bomb's app...' He starts typing hurriedly in what is probably a note of his idea to Mycroft.

'Sherlock, _please_?' I beg, not convinced at all of the harmlessness of a phones' proximity. He grumps, but shuts down the small device in his hands all the same.

_**.**_

'Part of this is my fault', Sherlock admits after a few minutes of silence. 'You could have been in your other home right now.'

I frown, not even knowing if I'm doing it because Sherlock admitted his fault for once (and obviously it's not even his fault, the genius was sure to get his timing wrong), or if it's because he called my address my _other_ home. Meaning that Baker Street is still my home too. _Thanks, Sherlock._

'Well, breakfast is an important meal of the day. Given that Baker Street is also my home...' I start, using up the hint he gave me so he knows I got it.

'Why did you move out?' he shoots straight to the target. I feel my throat constrict at once.

'You mean?' I buy time.

'You got yourself another home, John.'

_Because you left, you clot._ I look away and confess: 'Didn't feel like a home, the new place. Never called it one. Never said "I'm going home" again. It didn't add up... It had my belongings, what I took with me, laying around. Yet it had as much of a home feel to it as a refugee camp.' I chuckle bitterly. 'No, I shouldn't say this. I was a refugee without a war. And heaven knows I was looking for one.'

'A home or a war?' he asks me, glancing fast. I refuse to cross gazes with him, I opt for silence.

'Mrs Hudson came by. Brought me some clothes and other essentials I had left at Baker Street. Don't know if I was thankful or hurt by her gesture. Felt like she was striping away my presence at 221B. I had left my things behind willingly, to be a lost part of me there.'

Sherlock nods quietly. I realise he's done the same, in a way. Of course he planned to return. But all along he must have known there was a chance ha couldn't. He left his things behind — even the skull and the violin, precious possessions as they are — because he had to keep up a farce, and also in the odd chance they'd become his legacy. A bit of him in the 221B that he hoped to return to.

'She mistakenly gave me one of your clothes', I carry on, eyes fallen on the bomb in my hands. My arm muscles are starting to shake, but I won't dare to put it down or rearrange my grip. 'She gave me your purple shirt. To this day I don't know if it was a genuine mistake or if she thought I'd want to have around one of your possessions for remembrance.'

Sherlock smirks. 'I wondered where that went...'

'If you want it back...'

'That's okay, I got a new one.'

'Isn't that one aubergine?'

'It's purple, John!' he tells me, adamantly. Then with a glance at my shaking hands he gets up, moving in front of me, where he kneels in the street's sidewalk. He reaches out in a confident gesture and, before I can protest or react, he's got those long fingered hands grabbing firmly atop of mine.

'Sensor pads, Sherlock!' I could yell at him, had I the breath to do it, my heart races on my chest.

'They react to the decrease of pressure, not the adding of it, John.'

'Oh, and you deduced that?' I patronise, angrily.

'You needed my help', he points out in a simple and innocent logic.

'I didn't want you to endanger your life further!' I yell back.

'Did no such thing. I wasn't going to leave. Standing in front of the bomb, helping you carry it, or by your side talking away, leads to the same outcome, John.'

I tilt my head to the side, frustrated. 'You could have gone away, Sherlock, when the time came.'

'I wouldn't.'

'I wanted you to.'

'You're the one who keeps telling me I never do what you want me to, don't be so surprised... And, anyway, I bet right now Mycroft is panicking and pressing the bomb squad to actually do something.'

I smirk at last. 'Hungry, are you?'

He minutely shrugs, so not to upset the explosives. 'Didn't have breakfast.'

'Just a bucket load of chocolate', I smile. He does the same. 'Some people would have gone away, you know.'

'You wouldn't, if the tables were turned. That makes you equally insane, John.'

_I know._

My shaking hands between us, holding the bomb, he's stabilising them the best he can. Yet the danger of those two wires touching is getting higher, as I can't overcome my body's exhaustion. It's painful and scary, and I don't want to dwell on it.

Sherlock must have read my mind again because he resumes the light-hearted conversation atop a bomb:

'I spy, with my little eye, someone as pale as a ghost.' He's looking at the end of the block, beyond the blue and white police tape.

I could have dropped the bomb in utter shock if Sherlock hadn't his hands over mine.

'Mary', I see her too.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	87. Chapter 87

_(A/N) Context: John and Sherlock are holding a bomb in their hands, at 221 Baker Street's doorstep. If this doesn't ring a bell... then I've been posting too much. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part Three \ Last Part .**_

My fingers are numb, the muscles in my arms are cramping. Nature would not have me holding on for this long, I know that as a doctor and a soldier. Sherlock's consciously chosen presence as allowed me to endure it this long. No matter what, I can't let him down, I won't fail him.

_I'll stay like this till I turn to stone._

'Hello, Mary!' Sherlock actually smiles, as he greets my pregnant wife who has just broken in her way through the police cord closing off this segment of Baker Street, to come directly to us. She's being escorted by a bunch of protesting explosive experts in body-armour suits, all in black and grey, circling her like vultures, voicing off warnings of the danger Sherlock and I face. She carries on, steady and strong, eyes rounded and contained locked on mine.

'Hm. Morning, Mary. Sleep well?' I ask, evoking some traditional morning dialogue.

'John, you never showed up for work', she braves on, explaining how she'd come by Baker Street.

Sherlock cuts us off: 'I'm assuming a very romantic dialogue is about to ensue, but could I suggest you save it for later?' And to the officers sticking around: 'Can anyone get a chair for the pregnant lady? She can wait outside the police line, I'm sure she's fine with it.'

'Sherlock!' she dares him at once with a dirty look.

The detective carries on, non-surplused: 'She told us she just came out of a medical facility, better not risk it. Mary's almost due, she's been pregnant forever.'

I can't help but giggle. I know Sherlock wants to keep Mary away for her sake. I know Sherlock knows I'm no good at keeping either of them at bay, and having dragged Sherlock into this mess is quite enough for a day's blunder.

'Go, Mary. I'll be with you soon.'

She shakes her head and bites her lip, in a telling quirk of hers.

'I can help you disarm the bomb', she tries.

I smile sweetly. 'You don't know how, Mary.' _I think._ There's a lot in her past I don't really know. But if she knew how, she'd be on it already. Mary must have seen how my arms are shaking, how Sherlock's skilful hands are struggling to steady mine.

'Sherlock doesn't know how to disarm it either and he's here!' _Great, now the bickering between Mary and Sherlock starts... _I usually walk out the door and wait for them to come to their senses. I know they always do, because they are good friends. Only, today my exit is not an option.

Even my legs are getting cramped now.

The bomb disposal team leader eventually manages to drag Mary away. In the end I think she only allows it given the fact that she's not technically alone. She carries our child and needs to keep herself safe.

I sigh as soon as she turns her back, a chilling exhaustion is running me down.

Only notice Sherlock's attention has been closely set on me when he calls out: 'Get some paramedics in here, or are they waiting for the bomb to go off?' he adds, venomously.

'I'm fine, Sherlock.' Away from us, Mary is starting a fight again.

'John's blood's sugar level is dropping, he hasn't had the chance to eat today and his breakfast toast is upstairs already cold. While you are on it, you might want to add something for the tremors and painkillers for the cramps!'

'Sherlock!' I can feel myself blushing.

'Just to be on the safe side', he mutters for my benefit.

A courageous paramedic in a body-armour suit approaches us and for Sherlock's sake I let him shoot me up with whatever he wants.

'Not to worry, I don't usually drop things', I confide to the young doctor. Then turning to my friend and partner on adversity, I add: 'Isn't it time your brother's team actually does something? Do they get paid by the hour or by the bomb?'

'You know Mycroft's laziness is legendary', Sherlock jokes, as he's evaluating the paramedic's work on my arm. 'He'll act only when he's sure the attempt to disarm the bomb won't kill me... _Mummy would be cross_', he actually imitates Mycroft's voice and dramatic bitterness.

I smile tiredly, the young paramedic is leaving us, looking relieved to do so.

_Fine, I'll carry on._

_**.**_

Slowly, like a silent tree falling in the forest, I lean forward till I have my forehead resting on Sherlock's shoulder. He still stands strong, despite the long time we've spent at 221's doorstep, separated by a bomb in our hands.

We can take turns, I try to rationalise, each taking the bulk of the effort, sparing our aching arms a little longer. Only, physics says that to the load we share we've added each others grip weight. That cuts our survival chances right down again.

I hold on as tightly as I can because Sherlock has generously given me an incredible gift of life I cannot — will not — throw away. My friend, who I'm leaning against for support in so may ways, is the only one holding me together right now.

Mycroft Holmes has managed, in the last half-an-hour, to regress even further the barrier of viewers to our private hell. Somehow, even under eminent danger of death, I can't help but feel comforted that there are only a handful of witnesses to my frailty. Even Sherlock is not quite himself anymore, minutely swaying on the spot. _I wonder if he regrets his generosity already._

'Don't be boring, John!' he snaps at me, but as I look up to him, he has a soft caring expression.

'What d'ya mean?' I mumble.

'You know what I mean. How many times and in how many different ways need I say it? I'm here because I chose to, and I don't regret it.'

I keep a steady gaze on my friend's honest features for a while longer, incapable of a decent, equally noble, response. 'Thanks, Sherlock' is all I can summon in the end. Giving in, accepting my friend and his return to my life, to 221B.

Sherlock glances over his shoulder briskly. 'Ah, at last! Took their time!' he protests at the lateness of a strategic plan from the bomb disposal's team. 'I'm going to poison Mycroft's piece of cake!' Sherlock vents out. I look up, inquiringly. 'Laxatives', he particularises. I nod. I can get him a pack full from the clinic.

_**.**_

'It's been disarmed, Mr Holmes', the squared-jaw man in a protective suit assures us. He has just removed one of the two copper wires from inside the glass box, through a carefully drilled hole, cut with a diamond-point instrument. I can't divert my gaze from the now harmless piece of shiny metal, a wave of relief and weakness alike washing down on me.

'John.'

Sherlock's call sharpens my attention back to the moment. Only then I realise he hasn't extricated his hands from over mine and the box yet. He's only now starting to do so, slowly.

That's funny, I'd swear his hands were sweaty, as I feel the cold air come in contact with mine once again. Sherlock never sweats or otherwise loses his composure, and it shocks me to see him this human — this heroic.

'It's okay now, John. You can let go. _Just drop it, John_.' His words are infused with a calm reassurance, the type I need to see me through.

I put down the box on the pavement and, as I finally separate myself, I can still feel the ghost-like pressure on my fingertips. It'll take a while for my brain to process I've held life in my hands.

Sherlock moves a supportive hand to my shoulder and asks: 'Maybe you want to go upstairs now, John? I have a chocolate experiment to finish.'

He's asking me whether I'll come back to 221B after this terrible ordeal that originated there. _Yes, Sherlock, I'll always come back to 221B, so long as I can find you there._

I nod soberly. 'How much heavy metal content are you actually ingesting on the course of your experiment?' He loses his smile somewhat.

'I was saving the calculations for last.'

'Can I have some chocolate as well?'

'John!' He appears surprised.

'Hey, we've just survived a bomb, I think I've earned it.'

He smiles. 'Me too.'

We get up, and in shaky steps, ascend the inner stairs towards 221B.

Three chocolate bars afterwards (and one wrapper paper airplane from Sherlock beating Mary's and mine airplanes in a distance of flight contest — under rigorous scientific conditions, of course), we are surprised to hear Mrs Hudson coming in downstairs.

'Boys, are you there?' she calls out. 'Brought you boys a lovely tea towel from York.' Sherlock has got a multicultural collection of tea towels from Mrs Hudson. She opens 221A's door and still shouts: 'You wouldn't imagine the tremendous traffic to get here, it looked like the whole of Baker Street had been cut off!'

Sherlock and I share a knowing glance, opting silently not to worry sweet Mrs H with our tale. Give her some peace, I suppose; till she goes online and looks at the amateur pictures of her doorstep...

_'Sherlock!'_ Mrs Hudson calls out, not even a couple of minutes later.

_**.**_


	88. Chapter 88

_A/N: __The credits on this idea are not mine, it was generously suggested. At first I couldn't see it. Then an image prompted itself in my mind. Hopefully the same image?_

_So, cat-John and (human) Sherlock at 221B. __Two parts — I think. (Still unfinished; it's becoming an optimistic habit of mine.)_

_You know the drill; if it's not your thing, worry not, it shall pass!_

_Apologies if it's noticeable that I'm working without a good spellcheck these days. I think my phone allows me to make words up. -__csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'I can't believe you did this to me _again_!' I angrily raise my voice at my clueless friend. He keeps testing my trust in him, he keeps pushing it to the very edge...

Sherlock is already raising his hands in front of him, trying to appease me. But he can't quite hide the amused smirk that taints his expression.

He's not taking me seriously, he won't listen to me! 'I told you last time never to do this to me again, but you couldn't care less!'

Sherlock tilts his head silently. 'John...'

'What?!' I yell at his interruption.

'Surely you've noticed we are two different species right now?' _Didn't fail to notice that, thank you... I can feel my claws sticking out. _'I can't understand what you say. There are no words. I mean, if we were both people or cats surely we could have a productive, albeit impolite, conversation, I'd venture', he adds, with a twinkle in his eyes. 'But right now, John, you keep hissing at me, and I worry that the serum worked wrongly and you are uncomfortable or in pain.'

I halt at once, sensing his genuine worry. _I'm not in pain, although I'm feeling miserable._ 'Can you understand me, John?' I blank on how to answer despite the language barrier. In a couple of seconds I realise I can at least nod.

He looks relieved.

'Good, good... Now, usually I can read you like a book, but under this temporary condition it's slightly harder... Not to worry!' he hurries, in a slight beg. 'We'll find a way around this before the day is over.'

I sigh. I had hoped upon hope for a quiet weekend. Not anymore.

_Why a cat, Sherlock?_ How long will you take to understand there is only one question that actually matters to me right now?

He tilts his head to the side. My heart fills with joy. _He did get me!_

'I bought you everything you may need from a pet store. So, if you were worried...'

_No, he didn't get me._ Why would I care about pet food, sponge beds or mechanical mice? And I won't ever give a chance to the collar!

I sigh, giving up. Which on a cat seems to come along with a drop of the tail and a slight droop of the ears. Sherlock doesn't miss the change in my demeanour but again he struggles to interpret right.

'Are you feeling tired already, John? You seem to have regressed on age as well, you look a lot like a... kitten.'

_I've always had short paws, Sherlock. Go ahead and deduce that._

'No, you're not tired. You are...' he loses his words, getting it at last. 'You are somewhat depressed by this turn of events. I... well...' He seems genuinely troubled and I appreciate the obvious regret in his furrowed brow. 'There was a reason, John. It was necessary', he tells me with vibrancy in his voice. _He really means it, I know it._

_Go on..._ I concede nothing, not yet. Sherlock has a lot of explaining to do before I can just forgive him. He turned me into a stripped golden tabby cat - a four legged (plus appendage tail) creature for I know not what reason.

_Deep inside I already forgave my crazy friend. _He means well, there's ultimately a bigger reason and... well, he... takes care of me while I'm most vulnerable. I have full faith in Sherlock.

I mean... there is still some hard feeling. If he had turned himself into a four legged creature as well at least we could have had some fun. He turned me into a cat but I feel like a caged canary or a bowled goldfish. Trapped in 221B.

'Crime scene, John!' he announces in a timely fashion. 'We are going to a crime scene. Where you'll be free to spy for me, completely unnoticed. It's genius, John!'

He's really excited about this, I notice. But since when do they let cats into crime scenes? I frown. Is this crime scene a pet shop? A protected animals shelter? An old cat lady's home?

Sherlock picks me up from the table — suddenly my support is swiftly removed from under my paws, activating some sort of basic instinct to land on my feet — and with a swift move he opens wide his long wool coat's pocket and gently eases me inside. Half hanging inside and half peering around from my lookout, he's found a way to carry me round.

Oh, this is embarrassing. Hopefully no one will ever know. Sherlock better not go around calling his pet cat John. _I'm not a pet!_

_**.**_

With the ease of a practised habit, Sherlock would just slide in to the crime scene under the blue and white police delimitation line. Keeping his long coat's collar up, walking by the shadows (of an already very darkened indoor crime scene), ignoring haughtily every officer at the scene as if aiming to make them all his social enemies, he's acting no different from the usual Sherlock we've all grown accustomed to. Sometimes swooping down to the floor briskly, but always gently aware of my vulnerability and presence at his garment's pocket. We could make a quiet duo against crime just as we are, I muse, if it weren't for Sherlock's knack to get into trouble, the kind that makes me reach for my gun and shout a forewarning call. Two things I've been forced from, on a bloody time out.

With a sigh, I try to focus on Sherlock's method instead. It always fascinated me, all that he could see, invisible to the rest of us. From a more privileged point of view, if I expected to learn something from the master, it wouldn't be today, as I see him take mental notes of minutes details from the site, but the absence of a body (already at the morgue) or a carefully crafted clue meant to be left behind meant that we took the Yard's word as to a crime being committed there.

Fine for me, didn't feel like going through gruesome crime scenes today.

Sherlock halts suddenly as, on his investigative twist and twirls (making me nauseous), he almost collides with an amused DI Greg Lestrade.

'Hello, Sherlock, fancy seeing you here again. And John.'

'And what about John?' Sherlock retorts through a mid floor dive to look at the empty house's linoleum.

'You know what I mean, Sherlock.'

'Hm?' the detective appears distracted.

'I know it's John', Lestrade assures Sherlock without the slightest hint of a doubt. I find myself staring at our friend, touched because he could recognise me behind this first class disguise.

' "John"? No, can't think of anyone', Sherlock shrugs, trying too hard to look innocent. He runs his fingertips on the linoleum. Hardly anything but dust there. _Dust is eloquent_, Sherlock usually says. _Not to me, apparently._

'John Watson, your faithful overly patient best friend and ex-flatmate, Sherlock', Greg particularises with a warning look.

'Oh, that John! I thought you meant—' Sherlock pretends to be surprised, then concerned, as he gets up. 'Wonder what happened to him. Haven't seen him in ages!'

'He came to a crime scene with you two days ago.'

'Oh... So he did!'

_You are overdoing it by a mile, Sherlock. _It's making me giggle inside.

'And he's in your pocket now, all ginger and furry.' Greg points a finger at me, then particularises to the cat he sees in me: 'If you can understand me, John, you should know that Sally Donovan thought you were "fluffy".' I hiss before I can help myself. _Not cute, not fluffy, definitely furr__y._

Greg grins at once, and I realise I've just let my disguise fall and proved I can understand spoken words. Oh, well, I suppose it's okay, it's Greg Lestrade. Hopefully he's got enough good sense to keep quiet.

_I bet he'll also videotape me on his phone, to embarrass me later._

'Now, seriously, Sherlock, what is the point of turning John into a cat?' Greg asks straight on, as if playing his old protective role for all those he cares about came so naturally to him. _He's a good man._

'I need him to do some undercover work for me', Sherlock admits at last, looking over his shoulder for eavesdroppers. 'John was the only one I could trust... How did you know?'

Greg shrugs, opting to not rub in his success as Sherlock has done so many times at the end of a case. 'There is something about the way he looks at you in full trust, Sherlock. Then the fur colour also reminded me of John's hair. Finally, this cat has a small mark on the top of his front left paw, just like John has a scar on his left shoulder. I've only seen it twice, but it sticks to your memory. It would be too much of a coincidence.'

Suddenly Sherlock is grabbing me again, lifting me up in the air with one hand, facing him, as he quietly holds my paw in between gentle fingertips and inspects the mark on my fur. 'Extraordinary', he murmurs. _I beg to differ. _Sherlock then lifts me even higher up and pats my belly, parting my fur at intervals. This is because of that counterfeiter in Düsseldorf, I know it... _Stop it, Sherlock, that tickles me!_

'He's purring!' Greg comprehends, stunned.

Sherlock bites back a caring smile. 'John does that a lot as a kitten. I think... he's _happy_.' And with a softness that Sherlock rarely allows himself to exhibit, those long violinist fingers pull me closer to his warm neck. It must be basic instinct acting up on me because his warm soft protection and scent just turns my purr louder.

_I really need to get a grip on all this purring!_

Pretending it's not that audible, this staccato vibration I'm humming, Sherlock helps me climb to his shoulder and hold on tight to the wool coat's fabric with my small sharp claws, taking this vigilante positioning over his shoulder.

_So this is how Sherlock sees the world from his height._

_Good thing I'm not afraid of heights._

'We will go have a look at the crime scene now, Lestrade', Sherlock announces as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a detective to show up with a cat perched on his shoulder. Like a pirate with a parrot, I suppose.

'John, I'll need you to focus', he tells me, as soon as we clear away from the DI. 'Your eyesight is considerably better than a human's right now, being dark in here. I need you to keep a look out for anything suspicious.'

_That's not very specific, Sherlock..._

As Sherlock walks slowly to the further end of the room, he's muttering under his breath, distinctively enough so I can hear him, deceptively distracted so as to be ignored by Greg and the remaining investigators. 'It's a serial murderer, John. Strangles the victims, dumps them in empty houses listed for renovations. Breaks in crudely, dumps the bodies, moves on for the next catch. The rhythm has picked up violently, up to a new body every other day. Needs desperately to be stopped. As we speak, the man — statistically speaking a male is more probable to this crime — must be preying on a new victim. No murder is ever enough to be the last. So far, the public has failed to make the connection. They are unaware a serial murderer roams London, and a warning from the Yard would be useless without some sort of description, habit or target from the criminal. John... Time is running out, and we don't even know where he keeps and kills his victims. So, anything you think you see, you need to tell me.'

_Yes, Sherlock. I mean... I'll find a way to tell you. Even if I have to __mime__ my way through it._

As we investigate the seemingly devoid space, we are suddenly intercepted. Or Sherlock is. Not everyone can recognise me in my present state.

_Won't blame them, I might not believe it myself if I wasn't a living breathing poster child for that serum's efficacy._

'Is that cat John's upgrade, or did he finally walk away?' a derisive voice echoes from behind us. Sherlock twirls around at once, to face an old acquaintance. I grab onto the coat for dear life.

'...Sheryl?' he tries guessing through a heavily frowned expression. _Leave it, Sherlock, she's not worth the effort._

'Your cat is contaminating the crime scene', Sally snaps angrily. Behind her, Anderson looks up, uncomfortably. Recently reinstated, despite his professional crush on Sherlock, he won't dare to actively defend Sherlock's methods. Instead, he tries manoeuvring around:

'Sally, will you give me your opinion on this translucent flaky substance?' He's holding it with thongs under a torch light.

'Not my job', she snaps back, sensing his effort. Still, her expression softens slightly at the sight of the old forensic technician back at his post. I realise this must be their first field work together again.

Old times done and over with and heading for a promotion at Scotland Yard, ambitious Sally Donovan tilts her had to the side and says, at great cost: 'Look, Sherlock, I know this is what you do. You like to shake things up and do things your way. You're here because you get results and we are desperate. Try not to damage our crime scene procedures, because if we catch the pervert who did this and he walks away free because the correct procedures weren't followed, then all we've done is worthless.'

Sherlock turns around and walks away without acknowledging her speech. Behind us, she grunts in despair. _No, Sally, he heard you, I know he did. He'll do his best without stop being Sherlock. He'll catch the criminal. Getting a case ready for conviction is your job, though._

'Anything yet, John?' Sherlock asks me in a soft low voice.

_Hm... No._ Don't even know what I'm looking for.

_We may be here for a while._

_**.**_

Eventually we had to give in. As the last forensic technicians and police officers left the scene, so was Sherlock strictly invited out. With no more leads than the ones he came in with — which I assume amount to practically none — it's to 221B that we return. Not defeated, no. Sherlock wouldn't have that. He takes me out of his pocket as soon as we reach the warm living room, putting me down on my armchair _(Thanks, Sherlock!)_, and immediately seats in front of his open laptop, continuing his work. Researching, I presume, through Scotland Yard's data base for similar but older murders.

Tired to the bone as only a kitten can get with all the morning's agitation, I yawn, then curl into a ball on my chair, and lay down to take a nap. I try to keep an eye open, but even so I soon end up falling asleep.

Wish I could have been of more help, Sherlock, but being a cat is too much of a new thing for me, I guess.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	89. Chapter 89

_(__A/N__) Context: cat-John, (human) Sherlock._

_There will a short interlude after this one, and then I think it's enough with the cats. -__csf_

* * *

_**. Second part .**_

Sherlock's been working tirelessly since we arrived at 221B. Deeply enthralled by his research in a laptop, silent. I wanted to help him, but the lack of opposing thumbs to turn a page, or long fingers to type on a keyboard, leave me at a loss.

Impatient and grumpy as only a young cat can be, I roam around 221B looking for something to do.

I find myself jumping onto the kitchen counter so I can have a peek outside the window. Smell the fresh air, let it rumble my fur. I feel like climbing rooftops, sneaking under bins, board a bus just for the fun on it. I'm as much restless as a kitten as I ever was as a doctor and soldier.

What my lower perspective didn't allow me to see was a milk carton on my way.

Sherlock raises his tired eyes from his research at once, as the milk carton crashes on the floor, spilling its contents. _Sorry, Sherlock!_

It's as we cross gazes that I come to notice the dark sunken patches under his eyes, the paleness of his complexion, highlighted by the laptop screen's glow. This isn't a new case for Sherlock. He's been working on it for a long time. I see in my friend signs that explicitly tell that. Under the high level of grooming lies an exhausted man, holding on by sheer stubbornness and moral principles, trying desperately to solve this case, even at the expense of his own health and rest. I realise that while turning me into a cat was a relatively recent spur of the moment, the case has started long before for Sherlock Holmes.

'John, that was a waste of perfectly fine milk to sour! I've got a _Lactobacillus _fermentation experiment overdue...' Then he frowns all of a sudden. 'Scratch that, I'll multitask. Thanks for starting my _Lactobacillus_ experiment for me, John!' He looks excited, in that kind of maniac energy that derives solely from exhaustion.

I jump down from the counter, careful to avoid the (now scientific) milk puddle. Sherlock is already up and with the normality of some old habit he's asking his pet, half-absentminded: 'Are you hungry, John? Want some food?'

He opens the refrigerator with his foot and takes out a plate of leftover ravioli. By the scent spreading in the air, I'd say salmon ravioli. 'We can share', he offers. _If that's what it takes to get Sherlock to eat during a case... '_I'll get the pasta, John, you can have the filling. I mean, I've got a cat food tin in the pantry, in case you prefer.'

I take a stubborn seat by the kitchen table. _Salmon, please. _He smirks. 'Thought you'd choose that.'

It's been going on, this funny phenomena. Ever since I've been transformed into a cat, Sherlock is that much more talkative, as if compensating for my temporary silence. He fills the space between us with little snippets of speech, whereas before he'd happily stay sulkily silent throughout his research. I've often been reproached for talking or making noise while he deduces. This time he seems to have taken my role to himself and, sure enough, his constant input of presence eases my mind, calms me down in this wondrous state I am now. _He won't leave me alone._

'You need to tell me when you are hungry, John', he asks me as he puts down two plates on the table. In a couple of carefully planned jumps I climb to the table via his chair, and take a seat by the furthest plate.

Sherlock takes a seat, pouring the heated ravioli on his plate, and starts the laborious process of slicing them open, passing onto my plate most of the salmon content, and eating the pasta shell of it. I wait patiently for every bite, as again he fills the silence, this time with a quiet report of the case's status:

'Been searching for older similar cases outside London, assuming the killer may have moved in shortly before this spree started. Seemed like as good an idea as any. Ordinarily, I might have asked for your help, John. But I seem to have already asked you for a different contribution in this case.' _Yeah... _'I've been looking for anything out of the pattern, John! But there is nothing, _nothing!_, on the crime scenes that is remotely... _fishy_', he classifies, for the lack of a better word.

I smirk and un-smirk in less than a second.

_Hang on a second! That does make sense! _I smelled something at the crime scene... _Sherlock. Sherlock!_

He frowns.

I meow to confirm something is up.

He frowns deeper. 'Something I said, it was something I said', he mutters, trance-like. 'The crime scene. John, what did you notice at the crime scene?'

_Well, I can't go ahead and say it now, can I? Shall we try Morse code? Do you have a wicca board? _

'Stop hissing at me, John! It's not helping!' he gestures wildly in frustration. I flinch. As big as he is compared to me now, gesturing wildly, _I got scared_.

He freezes at once, guilt spreading all over his features. 'No, no, no. I would never hurt you, John.' He awkwardly pats my head and instinctively I lean in so he can scratch my neck. _Cut it out, John, there's a case to solve!_

Sherlock stills his hand all of a sudden. 'John, your whiskers are high on the air. Is that a clue?'

_Yeah, that I'm trying not to purr. No, wait, I can use this._

I sniff the air gently, the smell of salmon making me hungry again.

'A smell! There was a particular smell at the crime scene!'

I extend my paw to the salmon to represent a fishy smell.

'Not now, John! I'll give more food when we're done!'

_If I wanted more food I'd be eating it out of my plate. Don't be an idiot, Sherlock!_

'Salmon. Fish. Sea water!' he deduces in a crescendo. 'John, you are amazing!'

_I know. We both are._

No idea what it means, though. But Sherlock seems to have it under control.

_Was this a cat-like answer? Is this feline nature growing on me? _I don't care, I realise, swishing my tail, proud.

Sherlock is excited, looking as if millions of revelations about the case are hitting him one by one, and he's thriving on that blissful glory. I may have helped, in the end. And Sherlock actually got me! Happy, I begin to notice I'm purring.

_What am I doing? This is Sherlock! I can't purr to Sherlock! I need to cut this out at once!_

'John, are you okay? Is it a hairball?' he squints at me, all case ignored at a pause.

_No, Sherlock, it's not a hairball, it's a badly concealed purr._ Figures the socially awkward genius would have difficulty reading feline behaviour as well...

My friend gets up energetically. 'We need to go get our murderer. Wanna come?

I follow my crazy friend out the door at once, stepping over the spilled milk and leaving behind us a trail of wet pawprints. It's definitely Sherlock's job to clear the mess; can't be expected to work a mop!

_This feline reasoning is growing on me._

_**.**_

A cab takes us to the old docks, at Sherlock's request. The air is damp, there is a fishy smell of decay mingling with drying algae in the air. We come out of the cab onto the pier, the area seems deserted except for the detective and cat. _Sherlock, you did tell Greg and the Yard, right? _I hope he gets that I can't protect him like this, not now. I'm too small and defenseless.

As I reading my mind he lowers himself to the floor, picks me up and drops me on his coat pocket.

_No, Sherlock, I need to be out there to protect you._

'Just drop it, John. This time you need to leave it all to me.'

_Yeah, I know. That's what I'm afraid of. That's what got me this way. Your better judgement._

If he notices my discomfort, he's able to ignore it. Sherlock starts walking up to a rundown looking warehouse by the river front. 'This is where we'll find our serial killer, John. The fishy smell you picked up on, John, was related to sea water. Yet this is London. The Thames alone wouldn't be enough to give the sea scent. Different fish, algae, crustaceans, the lot. No, I sensed it too and it really was a sea smell. More salty, more minerals to it. I may need to right a blog on these smeels. I wonder why I haven't done that before!' I meow to get Sherlock back on track. Like an old habit, as soon as he hears me, he stills somewhat, more grounded. 'Well, there's only one way enough sea water got inland to contaminate the bodies left at the different secondary crime scenes, John. The killer forgot all about this incredible lead.' As my friend is speaking, he's already breaking the lock on the old warehouse's door. 'The sea water came inside a sea faring boat', and Sherlock points forward. Sure enough there's a small sized motor boat rusting in that warehouse, stood over stills. Even as we stare, it drips water from its hull.

'Ballast tank, John', Sherlock explains to me at once. 'It's a compartment under the boat that allows it to hold water, so the boat can be weighted down enough to better float, and not just topple over when placed in water. It's usually filled according to the weight the boat is carrying, using pumps that collect the water around it. This boat still carries the sea water from its last usage. A hole has been slowly draining out the water in to the very floor where the victims were killed.' _Okay. _I shiver, realising we stand where so much has happened. _But how did Sherlock know which warehouse to search? _Again, he answers my unspoken question. 'Chandler and I go way back, before he ever upgraded to murder. He is a violent man of volatile temper and cold reasoning, that has evaded the authorities for too long.'

I nod Yes; and now we hold the proof.

That's when we hear the warehouse's door sliding shut behind us. It frightens me, and I find myself jumping to the floor. Sherlock had turned to the door and now swirls around, looking for me. In all appearances, it's like he's just lost his glasses or a set of keys.

'Holmes! Again.' The evil looking man with a gun pointed straight on smiles coldly. Sherlock faces him at last, temporarily giving up on his search for me.

'Lovely space you've got here, Chandler. Love the decor. Great get-away home, or should I just call it "primary crime scene"?' he buys time, the way he knows it best; being annoying.

'You could never keep to your business, Holmes. We've got old scores to settle, you and I', the old fisherman replies in a rough voice.

Sherlock finally locates me, behind the criminal. _Can you be a little less obvious with that worried frown, Sherlock? You're going to give me away!_

'Scotland Yard is on the way.'

'Just in time to collect my latest victim, innit?' the killer snorts. 'Best one yet, too.'

_Oh, no, you don't get to threaten Sherlock, not in front of Captain John Watson, you don't. I've got tiny vindictive claws, all lined up, and I won't hold back..._

Sherlock is desperately trying to cross gazes with me, the fear that taints his expression is aimed at my wellbeing. He's intent to hold me back, keep me safe, but I know — call it instinct or recklessness — that this is a time for action.

In a sudden jump I climb on top of the criminal's leg, clasping my claws on the trousers fabric and stabbing him with my dextrous needle-like natural weapons. Immediately he reacts, stepping back to recover his balance, straying his gun from the target. Sherlock steps up at once, punching him deftly, throwing him to the ground. I jump away from the man falling down like timber in a forest on the last victorious second.

_Oh, look, I'm purring again_, I realise, with a swish of the tail, sitting down in front of them.

'John, that was...' Sherlock starts, as he's holding the vicious man down and the Yard's intervention is becoming audible in the distance.

_You're welcome, Sherlock._

'Incredibly stupid and dangerous!' Sherlock finishes.

_You're just jealous of my claws set._ I swish the tail again.

'When we get back to Baker Street, you're grounded!' he grumps.

_Yeah, right! I can see the smile you are desperately holding back. _Another tail swish comes naturally.

He sighs.

'You're too good at being a cat. You never listen, John!' my friend complains.

_Learnt it from you, Sherlock._ I turn elegantly and walk away smugly, ready to lead the way back to Baker Street.

_When you're done with that criminal, Sherlock..._

_**.**_

DI Greg Lestrade didn't hold us for long at the Yard, adjourning that pleasure for when I'm human and capable of intelligible speech once again. So Sherlock and I returned to 221B for a rest. Personally, I think a small nap is in order, but doubtfully the genius will allow it.

I yawn anyway, on arrival.

Plus those steps up to 221B's living room worn me out. I can't be bothered to go further upstairs to sleep. My armchair will do. I...

'What is it, John?' my friend senses, frowning at once.

I stopped frozen on the spot, just on the carpet.

'John?'

_Hairball, Sherlock. Hairball. Oh, no, no. Please, no..._

'It's okay, John. Deep breaths', he leads me on, soothingly.

_Cut that out, it's just making it worst! Sherlock, I can't cough a hairball out. I'm not a real cat!_

I'm coughing from the bottom of my stomach (I think; I'm a doctor, not a vet), trying to overcome this horrible itchy feeling in my stomach. I'm probably just rolling the hairball around inside me. It's disgusting. What if I can't get it out?, I fear. This can lead to all sorts of medical conditions, both feline and human, not to mention that it's positively vile to have hairs in my tummy. _I man: stomach!_

It's both frustrating and infuriating. All the while Sherlock is confidently expectant of my success in throwing up something that will resemble a slick wet ball of yarn.

_I— I can't do this._

'John, keep calm, you almost have it out.'

I shake my head, joining that to the shivers that quake my furry body from my stomach. I'm a pitiful sight.

Sherlock gets up suddenly, looking lost of all composure. He assures me, agitated: 'I'm going to ingest some of the serum too, John. I'll become a cat to show you it can be done.'

_No, wait! We did all this for the Work, Sherlock! You need to be human. You can't take the serum._

_I'll be fine._

Suddenly my stomach contracts violently of its own accord — _I mean, my tummy_ — and there is a perfectly round ball of ginger hair thrown out in an explosion of saliva, rolling over 221B's carpet. Gasping for breath, I start backing away slowly from the biological mess.

_There are times I hate being a cat._

Sherlock, however, is smiling brightly, looking relieved. Again he picks me up from the floor, paws dangling in the air in front of him. It's holding me at eye level that he tells me: 'Great job, John. You should be proud!'

_No. Not really. Definitely not._

_**.**_

Finally I see the full picture. An over exhausted obsessive detective that gauges his own value by his success rate at the most complicated cases, sleep deprived for the last couple of days, struggling to give Lestrade a break in the case that eluded them both, while on a countdown for the next serial murder to take place. Sure that there's something at the crime scene that he and Greg, and a hundred other trained pairs of eyes, didn't spot, he found his hope in science. Turning me into a cat because of the supposedly improved night vision. I'm sure Sherlock would have turned himself into a cat, but he foresaw a little trouble with expediting such plan. Upon finding a vital clue, he could not communicate with the Yard. That's how he came to choose me as an unwilling participant. Certain that he knew me well enough to communicate with me even despite the species barrier, Sherlock was also quite certain I would play along. There is almost a childish innocence in Sherlock at times like these. "It was important", he told me, bypassing any of my natural (and understandable) hesitations, straight to the end result. Because he knew I'd accept it in the end (he knew it through one of his monologues to John, even though I'm not even in the room, perhaps), so he was glad to change the order of factors leading up to the same result. Transform me first, reason with me later. _Oh, Sherlock..._

Now he has crashed asleep from exhaustion in the long sofa. Case solved, he's under a blissful sleep and I find myself humming in feline contentment as I see him.

I decide that, just in case, I should have a good medical look at him and so I jump up to the sofa. Instinct leads me to smell him — scents are so telling for me in this state. He smells of warmth, and peace, and Sherlock-ness.

_Oh, great, I just sniffed my best friend!_

Feeling his sleepiness seep into me — we are so much more attuned now that I'm an animal — I decide to curl on the sofa by his neck, with a long sigh. I'll just hang around here for a little while. It's not often that I get to appreciate a calm-filled tranquil-breathing warm Sherlock.

_I'll sneak out before I transform back._

_**.**_


	90. Chapter 90

_Addendum:_

_I can't write a piece unless/until it materialises in my mind. It's how it works for me._

_For all those who think John takes these sci-fi transformations too easily, and to the reviewer who cracked me up with a good snorted laugh by sending me the imaginary of a __**lion-John**__ to write up, here's why it doesn't quite reach minimum "story" standards (for my skills set). AKA, there'd be no case. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

I wake up and just _know_ it. Sherlock always has to have the last word. _Not — funny — Sherlock!_ A low rumbling growl echoes through the room upstairs from 221B.

'John!' I immediately hear the mad scientist and detective call my name, indulgently. 'I can hear you awake, finally! There is a case, John, a case!'

I growl away, even louder, and get up from my bed to jump to the ground. Soft thuds as my paws hit the ground. A tail whisk and there's a loud crash behind me. Oops, just smashed a lamp-shade on the floor.

_Not a soft paws kitten anymore._

'John!' Sherlock keeps calling me, 'You may be wondering why did I turn you into one of the most fantastic felines! You see, a kitten would just not do! Lestrade called us over to a crime scene at a zoo!'

_Sherlock_, I turn my head with a sniff of air. Yes, he's downstairs and he got me this way. Might as well teach him a lesson or two in respect.

Plus, how did he even expect to take a lion to a crime scene? By cab? Strolling with a leach? What would Scotland Yard make of it all? _You get too carried away with your genius sometimes, Sherlock._

Slowly, with a bounced walk over my four legs, I cone out of the room and head downstairs, muffling my steps.

Yes, I can smell Sherlock. The whole house reeks of his smell. Not too bad, don't know how come I never noticed my friend's smell before. Living room, that's where it's more intense. One glance inside and I see him, idly bouncing off orders from a languid position across the long sofa.

'John, please don't be frightened again! Must we go through your hesitations every single time?' he calls out.

_Okay, Sherlock, you asked for it._

I push back 221B's living room door with a head nudge. Finally he sees me there, in all my feline glory. Sherlock has the nerve to smile wickedly at his masterpiece, like an artist before his creation.

_Hello there, Sherlock._

I growl under my breath. Being a creature this size makes my breath sound heavy and panting in the silence that follows. Like I expected, there's just a slight touch of fear dawning on Sherlock, an instinctive response in the dilation of his pupils as he takes me in.

_Fancy seeing you here, Sherlock._

'Okay, John, I guess you may be a touch annoyed with me right now...'

_Oh, fancy that, the genius's got a brain!_

I growl again and he shuts up with a dry gulp.

'John?' he calls out, carefully. 'I'm sure you understand my words — don't you?'

_Don't sound so sure for once in your life, do you? Oh, I like that. Like reducing you to a basic human state._

In a quiet but fast and precise jump I get upon the sofa's edge, effectively pinning him to the small, getting smaller space, against the back of the sofa. I'm constricting him there, to that tight space, no escape from me. It's what he deserves.

'Okay, John, that's enough now. Just drop it, John, that's really enough', his voice trembles despite his obvious efforts to appear unaffected.

I'm sure I must be smirking now. What an odd sight I must be. I lean over Sherlock and sniff him. There's a tangible twinge of sweat and fear, that fills my senses with pride and joy. _Ain't so harmless now, am I?_ I growl in control, and lower my head to that pale neck of his. He flinches back visibly. I tilt my head to the side. _I've only just started playing, Sherlock._ Lowering a paw to his neck, just the soft underside, holding back my long curvy claws, I can feel him freeze reflexively. There's a vein under my paw, as I press over his skin, it's pulsing, hastened and alive.

'I — I'm sorry, John.'

_Oh, really? I mean, are you really sorry?_ Learnt your lesson so fast?

He gulps again, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down that soft neck. I accept his apologies, but need to ensure he knows what they are about. That he needs to respect me. I growl naturally, atop my friend. He could try to run away, I promise I wouldn't hunt him down too fast. Instead, he's leaning in, acceptant, submissive. Still trusts me. Well, then, mustn't let him down. The man's here for a show. And he chose me as the main attraction.

I lean over him slightly and growl softly at his ear. Sherlock shivers noticeably as my warm breath travels over his skin, ruffles his hair.

_What now, Sherlock? What do you want?_

Sherlock gulps again, rounded darkened eyes stuck on mine, as if he's trying desperately to recognise me in my feline disguise.

_Like what you see there?_

'In the kitchen, John', he stutters, 'the antidote is poured out on a bowl in the kitchen'. I tilt my head, and decide to go for the extra mile.

In a fast move I lick his long exposed neck. He shivers again, closing his eyes, goosebumps erupting as the cold room's air flows over it again. _Well?_

'I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry I didn't ask for your permission', he tells me in a low rumbling voice of his own, lower and deeper than I'm used to hear.

I spring my head back up. _Well, it wasn't that bad, was it?_ I turn my head to the kitchen. I suppose that if I want any chances of going to work later today I need to get a move on the antidote.

Softly I climb down the sofa and strut to the kitchen, lightly. Behind me I can still sense Sherlock taking the opportunity to dash out of the sofa and into the bathroom. He slams the door after him, encasing himself in safety.

_Come on, Sherlock, it's not like I've bitten you!_

I slurp steadily the antidote, Sherlock still won't come out of hiding. _Scaredy cat!_

I feel sleepy, and decide to put on a show one last time, ensuring my mad friend has learnt his lesson. Or maybe I just enjoy this, while my personality is slightly altered by the serum. I growl one last time at the closed door, then curl up in front of it. My back will be a mess later on, after all the jumping around, but it was worth it. I rest my head on my front paws and close my eyes with a happy sigh.

'Sleep well, John', I hear him tell me from within. I'm falling asleep with a contented purr.

_Thanks Sherlock. Hope you've learnt your lesson today: you don't mess with Captain John Watson._

_**.**_


	91. Chapter 91

_A/N:__ This is a little sequence that got longer and longer. Can I blame the length on Sherlock's deductive monologues? (It was worth a try...) Two parts._

_I don't think the deductions would be approved by a court of law, a forensic lab, __Occam's razor principle__, or even under common sense, but I had fun. __ -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 1st part .**_

_Sherlock's just solved another case._ One look at the crime scene, in a secluded portion of a natural park trail, and he rolled his eyes at Greg. He then proceeded to tell the detective inspector, in his most obnoxious manner, that the victim was shot. DI Greg Lestrade pointed out that despite the wound being consistent with a close ranged gunshot, there was no bullet in the body or the scene. Sherlock impatiently flicked a long finger, pointing it at a nearby tree top. 'What?' we both blanked in front of the inspired detective.

'Chestnuts?' I try my best. He frowns all his face in a fast glance at me, then over his shoulder to the tree. _At least, I think it's a chestnut tree..._

'The magpie! Can't you hear? The magpie took the shinny bullet away like a trophy to it's nest! In all probability it also took away the murderer's missing brass button, that fell off the magpie's nest onto the ground. So you see, the murderer must be the butler from the manor up the road and he has a button missing in his uniform as you will be able to tell when you knock on the door. He should confess soon enough. Our job is done here, John!'

_Oh, time to go._ Sherlock's successes at crime scenes are becoming faster and faster. Lately, it has become a matter of seconds, really. It has been taking us longer to get to the said crime scene than for Sherlock to assess it and announce the solution.

Greg has been feeling it too. There has started to be a latent resentment in our friend. After all, this is his profession, he trained hard for it, he follows the procedures, and then comes along Sherlock and shoots out an incredible resolution in five seconds and swirls away, dragging me along. It's been taking its toll on Greg, understandably. It's not professional jealousy in essence, it's more of a depressed exhaustion from an overworked police officer. Sherlock doesn't even register these fine nuances of social dynamics, and I haven't had a chance to point it out yet.

Must do that sooner, rather than later.

I flash an apologetic smile to Greg, ready to follow Sherlock, who is already moving away.

'John!' Greg still calls me, specifically. I halt, realising I wasn't expecting to be named at a crime scene. Usually I'm more of a bystander, with an occasional input, mostly silent. Sherlock does the talking in his larger-than-the-room outbursts.

'Greg, mate?' I lead on, expectantly.

'He's not even trying, is he?' Greg sighs. I don't quite follow.

'Trying?' I repeat.

'He doesn't need to make an effort. It comes out naturally to him. He's a genius, after all.'

I scrunch my face apologetically and diverge: 'Beer at the pub later, mate?'

He nods, like he doesn't particularly care.

_**.**_

Next morning and the scenario is very different. We're standing inside an office building, aligned rows of desks and phones hinting at the function of this location as a support line centre. People who have computer related difficulties phone this place and ask for assistance. Sometimes these guys work late, coming and going in constantly changing shifts. Perhaps this helps explain how none of his fellow co-workers noticed they've been working alongside a dead man for over a day. Finally someone took notice, for whatever mundane reason, and called the emergency services. The overworked paramedics then alerted the police and one hour later the case had been assigned to an equally overworked DI Lestrade.

Greg called Sherlock in after the first two hours and about sixty witness interviews to no avail.

Sherlock walked in, leaned over the table where the body waits for the forensic team in order to be taken to the morgue and got himself upright.

'Yeah, heart attack, I know', Greg nudges Sherlock to give us the answer. 'Could be a poison, I suppose.'

Our genius friend rolls his eyes. 'John...?' he leads me on, for the first time on a crime scene in the last fortnight.

Apologetically in the direction of our friend, I correct: 'The flushed tone on the skin would be more consistent with carbon monoxide poisoning, Greg. But, of course, only after a thorough forensic examination—'

Greg cuts me off by shouting to his people: 'Carbon monoxide, guys! Make sure we get footage from the garage as the victim entered the building!' Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. 'What?!'

'He poisoned himself, Greg.'

Our friend does a double take as all his assumptions on the case are crumbling down so fast.

'Suicide?'

'No, gullibility', Sherlock pronounces as a sentence. 'Check the deliveries made to his address last week. It was his birthday, as you can see by the excessive amount of birthday cards, clearly lined up for others to see from their angle, and not for his own enjoyment. You can also see slight abrasion marks on his wrists under the shirt, likely to be present in his ankles as well, from the rubbing of a too tight neoprene scuba diving suit. This man borrowed a deep diving suit from someone slenderer and lacked the experience to use some remedy to make it more comfortable while diving, on a birthday trip just before returning to work. He actually arrived late here, because when he resurfaced he was feeling dizzy and nauseated. He decided to come to work instead of going to A&amp;E. Here, the carbon monoxide that had tainted his air bottle took its toll, making him sleepy, till he finally collapsed silently. In this highly competitive business no one noticed, so no one helped him.'

Greg looks struck as he urges: 'Who did it?'

'The brother-in-law. Second postcard from the left. The scuba diving equipment lending is clearly mentioned there, as a birthday treat. Have you not noticed? This is your crime scene, after all... Let's go, John!'

I feel bad for Greg, but no matter the delivery, Sherlock just saved Greg a whole day of enquiries and police work. _And it was no short of amazing._

'Wanna come over to watch the football match on the telly, mate?' I volunteer, as Sherlock sniggers silently, halfway out the door.

Greg nods, looking throughout exhausted.

_**.**_

Third day in a row, Greg called us over. This time I'm running Sherlock a bit late, for he came by the clinic and stubbornly waited outside on the street _\- quite possibly throwing dark looks to all patients and company that dared to walk in. I wouldn't be too surprised, he has done it before._

_At the door... "Don't be sick, I need John!"_

_In the waiting area... "There are other doctors, you know?"_

_Inside my office, in the middle of a confidential appointment... "Coming for John__ when I need him__ is really selfish, you know?"_

_Or to the receptionist, as he's being escorted out... "How many more lives does he have to save before you let him clock out?"_

This time, Sherlock was quietly impatient as he waited for me, demure even. I catch up with him in the cafe across the street, where he's sat in front of an untouched set of tea and pastry. I take a chair in front of him and dive in, drained.

'I'm here, Sherlock!' I announce the obvious.

He pushes forward his untouched snack towards me. The tea is cold by now, but he knows the pastry is my favourite. _Must have had a crumble on my jumper once, because I never told him._

'Took long to detect the mild lead poisoning in the young lady renovating her house?' he asks me, conversationally.

He must have seen her come in.

'She was Chandler's patient, but I pointed it out to him, ta.'

He smirks gently. 'Still counts as a point for you.'

I sigh and lower my head. _This is wrong in so many ways._ 'There is no point system.'

'Should be.' _Says the man who never plays board games by the rules._

'You're doing it again', I alert him, tiredly.

'What?' he really doesn't follow.

'Solving the cases for us and shooting out the answers', I try to explain. _Maybe the wrong approach, here..._

'Don't you want to save the patient's lives? Doesn't Greg want to find the culprits?' he asks suspiciously, like often missing the finer details of subtle interaction.

'Sure we do, Sherlock. But sometimes... perhaps you could ease us into the answer? You must know that Greg works really hard.'

'So do you. And today you saved more three or four patient's lives than your average - I can tell by the sagging on your shoulders.'

I'm suddenly confused. 'How do you... Yeah, maybe', I finally admit. 'Just doing my job, could have been any other doctor.'

Sherlock silently rolls his eyes in disagreement. 'Hardly, John. Your success rate, when compared to—'

I cut him off at once. 'Anyway... crime scene?' He admits at once:

'Greg is waiting for us. Fresh murder.'

Only Sherlock could be so indecently happy about that, and make me smile so easily at the face of it.

'Okay, let's go. Call a cab while I pay. They only stop for you, anyway.'

Sherlock moves away, half-giggling under his breath. _Not fair, and he knows it__!_

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	92. Chapter 92

_A/N: Still not British, a writer, or a detective. -csf_

* * *

_**. 2nd / last part .**_

Half-an-hour later and we finally meet up with Greg Lestrade, by an abandoned 32feet cargo container at the docks. There is a constant flow of commodities being delivered and shipped off from these docks everyday in a tight small operating area, so it's most surprising that the abandoned container got unnoticed for so long.

'It was empty, Sherlock, with the exception of a body.'

I have a quick glance along the white and blue police line setting the perimeter. Surely there are cctv cameras...

Greg continues. 'The container just got open by the local authorities when they found no one to claim it and no paperwork to explain it.'

Sherlock perks up. 'And the body?'

'It has been taken away already. You took your time getting here!' Sherlock just throws me an I-told-you-so look.

_I was working! With live bodies instead of dead ones..._

Sherlock Holmes, the great detective of Baker Street, just demands: 'Where's Anderson's bag?'

'He's already left, Sherlock. What do you need?'

'An ultraviolet light! John, can you get me one?' I shake my head, bewildered. Impatiently he flairs his arms and turns on the spot to the other police officers: 'Is anyone here slightly more proficient among you all, that actually carries an ultraviolet torch? Someone? And you call yourselves detectives?'

'Sherlock...' I try to abate, as I take a couple of fingers to the bridge of my nose in a patience seeking gesture. He fixes his attention on me, arrogantly.

'The solution has been written on this container's inside wall by the victim before he died, John! It's his last message, quite probably identifying his killers so they can get caught as they are currently getting away, and you want me to wait? Do you wish me to say this more politely so Greg doesn't get offended for not doing his job properly? Is that it?'

I sigh, not even crossing gazes with the detective inspector. _Maybe I shouldn't have talked to Sherlock at all. I failed to make my message clear enough._ 'Sherlock, you said "they". What makes you think it's more than one person?'

He grimaces at my slow-witted mind, his attention solely focused on me now, Greg all forgotten. 'Isn't it obvious? This is a mafia-type of work. It's quite obvious... John?' _I'm still drawing blanks here, Sherlock. _'The victim's cufflinks!'

Greg joins in: 'The victim is halfway to the morgue, Sherlock.'

'The cufflinks left an impression on the wet sand on the floor. Can you not see?' Our friend is getting more and more impatient. Finally Sargent Sally Donovan approaches us with a small torch in her hand. Sherlock snatches it away with almost a vicious grasp, turns it on, and points it at the inside wall of the metal cargo container. There we can read, in dripping letters, white over a bluish background: BLUE DRAGON.

Among our collective stunned, almost respectful, silence, it becomes quite audible a sigh of disappointment from Sherlock.

'Know where to find these guys?' Greg correctly interprets.

'If you must...' he mutters in a small understated complaint. Immediately he turns around, exiting the scene. Greg and I exchange glances and follow suit.

'Look, Sherlock', Greg still tries, 'if you'd just tell us where we're going...'

'No time to waste!' he denies us. Clearly my talk just worsened the situation. In this moment in time, Sherlock Holmes is convinced he's surrounded by idiots. _But we shouldn't take it personally; most everyone is. _To this day, I haven't seen my friend do an exception other than mind stimulating psychopaths and Holmes' family members. Or maybe Greg and I on our best days.

_I've come to think of this as a Sherlock's style praise._

Greg dispenses his team with a short gesture, deciding Sherlock's mood is best tackled on a one-to-one basis. In what is almost an automatic response, Greg defaults to following Sherlock's genius streak, just like I always do.

In no time, Greg is delegated to the driver's seat of a police car, Sherlock seats impatiently by his side dictating directions, and I'm as good as forgotten in the back seat.

So far, Greg has been unsuccessful in extracting information about the Blue Dragon group from our friend. He's maintaining his silence out of stubbornness. Most of all, I think he has resented my small pep talk and the disastrous after effects.

_I may have made matters worst._

Greg is sulkily flooring the acceleration pedal and the car zooms along less frequented streets that Sherlock has been picking out from his memory metal maps. I take to myself the mission of goading information out of a deliberately difficult genius.

'Do you think the victim was a member of the Blue Dragon or an infiltrated spy?'

Sherlock grumpily points out: 'The gold cufflinks, John!'

'Hang on a second! How do you know they were made of gold?'

'Obvious.' Again I feel my friend snappy, short-tempered. 'Seen them before, in the higher and most trusted men in the Dragon's hierarchy. That man was once respected and feared. Now he was made an example.'

'Not very scary.'

'On the contrary. That man was killed by an old traditional contraptions used only by this group. It involves restraining and slow torture. It's really quite ingenious...' With a glance at my _not good_ expression he adds dutifully, with a mechanic headshake: 'Although terribly wrong.'

I smirk. Greg is already ahead of me, noticing: 'You said the victim wrote the message inside the cargo container, Sherlock. That means he was alive when he entered. But if he was tortured... how did he write it?'

Sherlock nods absent-mindedly. 'John said I'm not to tell you', he finally decides upon. I gasp and stare angrily at my friend.

'Sherlock...' _That was not what I said, and he knows it._ He's milking it because he resents what I told him.

Under the Baker Street's genius directions, Greg takes us to an old dockyard, with rundown warehouses and rusting iron trimmings by the river's margin. The area looks long abandoned, or it _would look,_ if there weren't tire tracks still visible on the dirt road.

'Smugglers?' Greg gathers hesitantly. Sherlock nods silently, and ducks slightly, in a silent caution alert.

'Have your handcuffs ready, Lestrade', he whispers tightly. 'And, John, your Browning.' Reflexively, I take my hand to my waist band. Empty.

'I didn't bring it, I was working!' I protest under my breath. I can't take a gun to the clinic!

Our friend looks taken aback by this news of my zero fire power, and he glances at Greg, the only one in our impromptu team that can swing things in our favour now.

Before Greg and I can share a worried look, and as Greg reaches for his phone to call in backup, Sherlock is diving to the floor in a gracious investigative move and feeling the wet dirt on the road. 'Motor oil. That's how the undercover agent left us the message on the container's wall.'

Greg and I go speechless. 'Undercover agent?' Greg regain speech capacity first. 'Sherlock, if you are making this up... He was one of the good guys?'

Sherlock flinches in a sudden reaction, as if he had successfully forgotten our presence there, so focused on the mystery. He soon recovers his ground and purses his lips like a stubborn child, one that won't play our game anymore.

'You've got plenty of clues here to wrap the case up, inspector. I'm quite sure you don't need my inputs anymore.' And he looks directly at me as a kid waiting for a praise.

Before I can set things right, before Greg can call for backup, and mostly before Sherlock tells us what is going on, suddenly we're being surrounded from all sides, several man with guns in hand. We know at once that resistance is futile. We have been caught. We'll have to play along till we get a chance to break free.

They come to take Greg's gun away, and immediately we are pushed over to the closest of the warehouses. Greg grumps under his breath, Sherlock plays bored, I'm evaluating the surroundings for an emergency escape plan.

In the warehouse's darkened damp space we find a 32feet container just like the one that turned out to be our latest crime scene. I glance at Sherlock, he's smirking as if all his expectations were being confirmed, and we were well within the time frame expected for our crime solving exercise.

'Is there a plan, Sherlock?' I whisper tightly, only to be forced silent by the imminent threat if a gun to my head, and shoved forward inside the container. Greg and Sherlock soon follow me, as one of the men is already tying my wrists to the ground with some natural fibres' rope. I test its strength as soon as the man moves on to tie my friends, but the rope is sturdy and will not give in.

If this happened to the victim, how did he set himself free to write his final message on the walls with the motor oil Sherlock found traces of outside?

As Sherlock sits elegantly on the floor and Greg squirms his hands tied behind his back, the container's door is shut tight, the resounding metal sound followed by the sounds of bolts being shut tight. We are drowned in almost complete darkness and eerie silence.

Then something strange happens. Our metal floor is shaking, the sound of metal grinds is filling the space, screeching and rolling, and we feel the compartment get lowered on the end side, angled only slightly, then it's sliding as if on some platform, and, as if it wasn't terrifying enough, there's a sudden brisk deceleration and a large thud of impact. Immediately water starts pouring in through every joint on the end wall.

River water, going by the smell and taste of the heavy drops that splatter on my face, and are drenching me wet.

This is how the victim died from an external weapon in a small contained space with no visible weapons. This the slow torture Sherlock mentioned.

'Boring', Sherlock classifies with a sigh. I do a double take on the calm genius by my side. Instinctively I know he's got it all under his control. I can't help but relax somewhat. Not much. After all I'm still tied up and left to drown with my best mates.

In all fairness, Sherlock is a deep believer of the end result's approach, the bottom line. He'd have little qualms to commit a serious crime in order to save a life, because it's about the life, not the means to the result. That's why he bends the rules so much. Well, yes: _and also because he enjoys being the rebel._ But one would get used to that after years of being misunderstood and treated as an outcast. I do get where he comes from in his unique personality, and now I feel like I've done him a disservice in asking him to change, in order to comply with societal rules he doesn't quite see the point of. Mostly because he was feeling comfortable being his true self among friends — Greg and I — and my approach came about as sort of a betrayal to him.

He's got tough skin, though. Right now, he's enjoying milking this as a silent stubborn protest on my well-intended lecture.

I cross gazes with Sherlock. There's actually a light and amused twinkle in his green tinged eyes. He sustains my gaze calmly, as if assuring through my worried expression that he's not troubled, he's taken control of the moment and he's proving a point. I think he understands.

'Sherlock, if you're doing this just to get back at us...' Greg starts, sounding exasperated.

'Not at all!' he sustains lightly. 'I realised I shouldn't overstep my boundaries and I need to wait patiently for you and John to arrive to the right conclusions... Even if that might take a while, given your usually scattered thought processes.' _But we shouldn't take it personally; most everyone is like that._

'Greg...' I stop him before he insists further with Sherlock. It doesn't help that I'm swallowing a giggle. I'm drenched in cold numbing water reaching my waist and I'm giggling like a mad man. 'Okay, Sherlock. I take it the message was written with motor oil, that dried on the wall before the water reached it.'

He nods responsibly. 'One motorcycle track on the dirt path out there shows he came by motorcycle. Possibly the gang appropriated it, after the victim's death.'

'And the traditional ropes on our wrists are water soluble, and will snap with enough persuasion.'

'Definitely, John. Greg, care to join in? John is doing great! And you were right, this _is_ nice.'

_Glad someone is enjoying_, a sarcastic part of my mind supplies; but it's unfair, I trust Sherlock and I'm weirdly enjoying this pressure deduction time too. _Adrenaline addiction_, the first part of my mind supplies.

'But the undercover agent failed to get out, Sherlock. Is there a way out?'

'Naturally', he assures us, calm and composed.

_Good_, because the water is almost as high as my shoulders now , and the ropes that bind us still haven't snapped.

'We have been dumped into the river', Greg picks up the game, exasperation still noticeable in his voice, 'and the water will rise all the way up, drowning us. But there is a way out.'

Sherlock nods again. 'I said that already', he protests, bored.

'Sherlock...' I call his attention, the water is up to my chin. Not so high on Greg or Sherlock, it's my curse as the shorter one. 'I give up.'

'Nonsense, John!' he incentivises me without even looking and seeing the real matter.

'_Sherlock!_'

He glances at me briskly and mutters a curse under his breath. 'On it, John!' He snaps the ropes behind his back and launches to me through the swirling water to set me free. 'It's actually easier to break the rope if you don't struggle. The stretch elongates the natural fibers, compacting them, and so the water actually permeates less into the—'

'Sherlock!' It's Greg turn to hasten the genius, as the water reaches my nose, my neck and torso fully outstretched as is it, making me cough. With one last combined yank at my ropes they snap and Sherlock pushes me to unsteady feet, coughing and catching my breath. Immediately he goes back down to set Greg free as well.

'How do we get out, Sherlock?' I press him, as soon as Greg is free of the ropes. If Sherlock thought of milking the solution further, one simple glance at my expression should change his mind.

_He doesn't look._ 'John explained to me...' he starts again, and I feel I've let him down.

'No, Sherlock, I was wrong to try to change you', I finally tell him. 'Well, this time', I add in a hurry, with a smirk, as I see him look a bit shocked. I'm his radar for social behaviour and I'm backtracking in what I told him, the almost autistic-like facet of my friend's personality is utterly confused.

'Can't be. Just drop it, John. You are John, you are the one that always helps me with—'

'I was wrong', I insist, curtly. It happens, Sherlock, I'm not infallible.

'So you really ant to know how to get out of here?' He wants to be sure I'm not cheating, or something. 'This is not a trick?' I hide a bout of good-humoured giggle, Greg is somewhat appalled. 'You are sure?'

'Yes.'

'But you can still—'

'Timing, Sherlock. Maybe another day.'

He nods at last.

'The Blue Dragon containers have been fitted with a hidden trap door in the ground so to release the water after the container has been submerged to... well, dispose of the victim. The agent didn't see it, unfortunately, because with the water that pours in too much sand, dirt, algae and other debris are sucked in by the difference in pressure, and settle at the bottom due to the different density. The dirt hid the way out to the victim, but I know where it is. I saw it clearly as we got in... So, deep breath, and lets get out of here?'

_Definitely._

The three of us got back into the cold rising water and struggled to push open a small trapdoor on the metal ground. As soon as it gave in, we snuck out at the very awkward angle and, one by one, swam up to reach the surface of the cold Thames' waters, from then on, all together, to the safe margin, further down the river bank.

Cold, wet and shivering, there would be civilisation nearby, and we followed Greg to a normal packed full riverside restaurant to flash a soggy Scotland Yard badge and call for backups.

As we all stand inside the warm restaurant, drying ourselves with towels, and sip gratefully warm drinks, there's a stunned silence breaking us apart now.

Greg gets called out by a waiter because his backup is outside. Sherlock and I stay behind for now, sat at the dinner table. Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock pushes the menu towards me.

I glance darkly at it.

'You were never in any risk, John', Sherlock points out, coldly, distant. 'And you both either trust me or not.'

Greg sighs behind us, startling me. With a quiet desperation, he acknowledges: 'God help me, I do trust you, Sherlock.'

I take a couple of fingers to the bridge of my nose, praying silently for patience. Is there no end to Sherlock's blatant manipulation? As he was talking to me he was aware Greg was in the vicinity, and would naturally listen in.

'I just don't see the point', Greg adds just then.

'The point is, inspector', Sherlock spats out, over pronouncing the word "inspector", 'that I'm doing my best and giving you the answers as I get them. There would be a time I may delay them so that not-so-fast minds could follow and recognise me, or even praise me if they chose to do so, or just because _I can_. Not anymore.' Sherlock glances fast at me. 'I want the case solved, because what we do matters.'

'You said "we", Sherlock. "What _we_ do" ', Greg repeats quietly, a tiny hint of pride coming up on his face, making the over exhausted DI look years younger all of a sudden. Greg glances at me, as if to share this glory of Sherlock being more than a great man, a good one. But no, this is not me. I'm just his blogger. This is all Sherlock.

'Come on guys', Greg stands down. 'My turn to buy a round at the pub.' Then to Sherlock, notorious for not showing up for these things, he particularises: 'Just this once?'

Sherlock rolls his eyes in mockery, but he can't quite hide the warm light in them.

'Fine, I'll stay till John gets drunk. That should be fast.'

'Oi!' I warn him at once, half laughing, but I manage to sober up enough to give him a captain Watson stare. 'How would you even know anyway?'

'Based on your age, physical condition, usual pattern of consumption and extrapolating to account for the alcoholic streak in your family.'

Greg turns away briskly, but in hear him giggle. 'You're at it again', he tells the genius without even facing us. _Wise, Greg._

I clenched my fist and ow I lean over to Sherlock. 'Fine, you're on on. You and me, we'll see who gets drunk first.'

Greg sobers up fast, glancing worriedly at Sherlock. _Oh, Greg knows our friend has just walked into a trap._ We've been at the pub way too often this past week.

_No, Greg, I know this git._ Gaze deadlocked on the genius, and his on mine, we both nod.

'Kids!' Greg intervenes, and sure enough his voice is fatherly and appeasing, 'That's just plain silly and you know it.'

Sherlock shrugs and so do I. _Yes, we know._

_**.**_


	93. Chapter 93

_A/N: More parts to come. Still under construction. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 1**_

The explosion of gunpowder in the handgun's chamber is instantaneous and loud. The whizzing sound from the bullet speeding through the air is muffled by all the other sounds between the killer and us. There are heavy footsteps running, stomping on the dirt ground, little twigs breaking, leafs crackling, panting breaths, and fear (because fear has a deafening sound of its own, in one's ears) as the chase takes place amid the dusk falling on a natural park, plenty of hideouts luring danger back to us. Then the birds take off in a mad flight, all of the woods fall under an eerie stunned silence, and suddenly there's a small strangled noise, almost a sob, followed by a blunt heavy sound of distress and falling down. I click my own trigger, hardly sure if I meant to shoot or if I clenched my fingers shut by the shock of that sound, eminently innocent and so terrifying. My gun is dropping to the floor — hot, deflagrated, used — and I could be already miles away, I am in my mind surely, as I'm plunging back, where I left Sherlock. One moment when I lowered my guard — _Stupid! Useless! You should have seen it coming!_ — one moment of my incompetence was all it took.

Sherlock was shot.

The fear that drowns me in cold sweat — _is Sherlock okay, is he too badly hurt?_ — I strive to push it aside. This is what I do, I can take control of this.

I drop to my knees beside the well known form of the Baker Street's detective. He keeps himself half-propped up on an elbow and he could be just lounging around idly if it weren't for that sinister looking red stain on his anthracite suit trousers. I know better than that. No matter the high pain threshold of my friend, born out of a life of bad experimentations, he's now putting on an act for me, for all of us there, spectators to his misfortune.

'Sherlock, talk to me', I order at once, not sure if by the voice of the captain or the doctor in me. The sight of Sherlock hurt is making me too jittery.

'I'm fine, John', he lies for my benefit.

And then it comes. Not for the first time, his voice — particularly the calm controlled way in which he pronounces my name — helps ground me. His calm answer is the one thing that could help me do this for him now.

I'm pulling out my compact knife. Today it lives in my boot, such as for so long it has lived there an army knife. 'I'll be the judge of that, shall I?' I ask him, tense.

Sherlock nods. He knows I need some sort of permission from him before moving on. I'd only bypass it if he was unconscious and it was for his best chances. He nods in full trust, therefore, giving me a power over his body that is born out of vulnerable trust. Whatever I do, I cannot hurt him further. I need to heal him, in a deep desire to do him good that is only too supported by my need to protect him.

'People will talk', he adds to see me smile. I'm ripping his trousers open with my knife, regardless of what people care to think. I do my best to match his expectation, to smile back, but even I can tell it comes out void, empty. Not until I've done my job on his wound. Upper thigh. This will be a painful one, Sherlock. Not deep, but running long, the rightful definition of a bullet graze. This I can fix, I can help heal, it's within my grasp. I pull off that tight smile with a bit more ease.

Still Sherlock won't lower himself to the ground. His greyish eyes are stormy as I glance up to his face to evaluate possible shock signs. Sure his face is more pale (hardly thought it possible) and there's a light tinge of sweat over his brow. Could have shocked me, given the man's usually pristine and composed look, had I not been his doctor, his protector, other times before.

'You're one lucky bastard', I tell him, my speech pattern down the drain all of a sudden. Sometimes I think it's the army captain in me. Blasphemous and thunderous (and effective). 'Stay still before I make you.' One small threat goes a long way in blowing out steam as well. Sherlock is not surprised. Sherlock has read between the lines. Sherlock smirks.

Still propped up on his elbow, he won't let me see him fallen. It's not pride. It's a caring gesture, departing his image from a lifeless bag of bones on the pavement outside St Bart's. He doesn't do that mistake anymore. If he gets hurt, he won't lay down. He'll do that for me.

Bloody considerate man, he didn't fail to interpret me right.

_First time I saw him on the floor after Reichenbach, it was 221B's living room, as I was coming in. Now, I had seen Sherlock in a multitude of thinking poses and positions over the years. Over the carpet, on the floor, was a first. As it turned out, the table, the armchair, the long sofa and the kitchen were packed full of books (murder at a library, the killer had hidden a clue inside a book, no one knew which). Apart from the fact that when I first saw Sherlock on the floor I completely ignored the pop up library and didn't see the cause-effect relation there, I just froze on the sight, jacket clutched by my fingers slipping off to the floor. Suddenly I couldn't move and I couldn't talk, and most of all I couldn't breathe. I was a mere inch away from a meltdown. Didn't even last a second. On the floor, Sherlock tilted his head so his gaze would pierce me. Death blue eyes, they felt to be, so wrong on his face, estranged, ominous. _Familiar_. Just that, no other movement, I didn't even catch him breathing. My stomach turned, I may have whimpered, and only that elicited a new response from Sherlock. A slight frown. My vision was suddenly blurring, and I refuse the idea that tears were springing up, they never do, I always go numb, so my blood pressure must have dropped, must be fainting, _something_. Next thing I know, Sherlock was getting up from the floor — his green eyes stuck on me, and how does he manipulate the light angles so to change his eye colour so fast? — and in two steps he was grabbing me by the shoulders before I even knew my knees were giving out. And I just let him. Silently. He would glance at the floor he left behind, then at me, then at the floor again, evocating what I saw. Because he's a genius, eventually he'd get the maths right. Just as I was feeling deeply and utterly ashamed; and so comforted to feel his tight grasp on my shoulders. Sherlock didn't say a word, either because he didn't find what to say or because he knew I was beyond words right then. He just steered me to the coffee table where he magically found an empty patch and made me sit there. I was the one shocked silly and yet there would be only one pulse measurement, breaths per minute count and pupil dilation response to light assessment in 221B. I needed to make sure he was alive. He let me, quiet and demure. When I finished (he must have been secretly studying my reactions all along and deemed them good enough) we went back to business as usual. No need to go over it. I learnt my lesson — always check for pop up libraries — and he seemed to have learnt his — lay off the floor with death-like vacant stares, Sherlock._

So here, in the deep enthrals of this natural park, bullet graze to the upper thigh, he won't allow himself to fully rest on the ground. That's my cue. As I finish bandaging him the best I can with the meagre supply of first aid materials that lines the deep ends of my jacket pockets at all times, I remove my jacket and drape it around him, preserving his body temperature. The sun is setting, projecting long shadows from the poplars and birch trees, and only the ground retains some of the day's warmth, quickly lessening.

I drag myself over to Sherlock's side and carry my arm strongly under his chest, taking in his weight, supporting him at last. He gives in, leaning on my grasp, with a sigh. I glance around. _Need a plan, captain!_ I won't raise Sherlock further, the recent shock would likely make him pass out if I was to stand him up on his feet right now. Instead, I make him lean towards me, resting his upper body weight on me. _I've got you_. I can't help but to arch my back slightly. His head nestled against me as I'm shadowing him to keep him safe, keep him under the closest check there could ever be, possessive as it may be. _Other times I couldn't do this. Couldn't hold, assess, care for my friend. Especially on that cold pavement, he was beyond my reach, and I needed so badly to do this._ The detective in my arms shows little concern for my intentional imprisonment, but he won't push me away either. Actually, he falls still, comfortable.

Greg Lestrade finally makes his way over, running towards us. Always late, he is. Sherlock and I got it all under control. Bad guy shot up ahead and falls over the other side of the hill, Sherlock has got all the case worked out, too. Just waiting for you, Greg.

The DI stops abruptly as he takes in the duo on the dirty ground. 'Oh, shit!' he pronounces, clearly, before waving his gun around to eminent invisible threats.

Time to fess up. 'I shot the killer. I don't know—' Wait, make that: 'I don't care how he is. Sherlock's got a graze on his left leg. I've got him stabilised. Can you call an ambulance?' My voice cracks only so slightly at the end. I'll have to surrender Sherlock to a more prepared team of professionals. Yet I keep holding him as if it kept him alive. I close my eyes tiredly.

'On it, John', Greg promises me, as he and his gun move up the hill to make sure I didn't mess up. Good old Greg, always reliable. As he walks away, I hear him speak hurriedly on the phone, summoning that ambulance for Sherlock.

I strike up the smallest of smiles, hiding it atop my quiet friend.

'Oh, Sherlock...' I mumble under my breath. He got himself hurt on the pursue of the criminal that we got in the end — at a high price. 'This is going to be a nuisance.' A cooped-up impatient child-genius detective with a temporary walking impeachment.

He'll be fine, given time. As for me, I'm not necessarily sure I can survive the ordeal.

'You can teach me', he tells me, in a voice that denounces only a slight shock. _Keeping strong for me._

'What?' I frown.

'How to use that wretched crutch of yours. The one from your psychosomatic limp. Well, not that one itself. It was yours and you are short, John.'

_Babble on, Sherlock._ Any other geniuses would know those things are height adjustable.

'I will', I promise, steady.

We can hear heavy footsteps returning.

'How is he doing?' Lestrade comes back in a slightly panicked run. If he finds it odd that I'm still embracing Sherlock's lanky frame he does a good job at hiding it. In fact, going by Greg's worried expression, I'd venture Greg wants to hug him too.

'Not too severe. Some blood loss and some minor muscle damage. He should recuperate fully given time. If needed he can add some physical therapy to his healing.' I note all I can as a doctor, but after having done my job, my brain is now beginning to get a bit scattered.

'No heavy duty painkillers, though...' Greg hints at the both of us with a knowledgeable look. Against my shirt, I can feel Sherlock nod on acquiescence. I had already closed my eyes... Bloody hell, how come I forgot about that?

I need to move back to 221B. I need to be on permanent nursing duties._ I should say goodbye to my sanity._

_**.**_


	94. Chapter 94

_(A/N) Context: Sherlock was shot (bullet graze, don't panic!). This is part 2 of no-idea-how-many._

_It's a bit of a filler, because I'm a bit lost on this stubborn idea, regretting I posted the start already. I reserve the right to come back and take it down. But, well, I keep my hopes up. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 2**_

'John... John!'

I look up at Greg, wondering why is he talking like there's something that matters, when nothing does, it's all shambles, a façade, it's all hollow and lopsided. At least in my world right now.

'John, I'll stay with Sherlock. Go do your thing. The man is alive, but bleeding heavily.'

I frown deeply, incredulous. Greg insists, stern: 'You know Sherlock will be fine with me. If you don't do this, and that man dies with your bullet, it doesn't matter the circumstances and how rightful it was. You know you'll blame yourself. I'll take care of Sherlock till the paramedics get here.'

_He's right._

I find myself shaking, as I part with Sherlock, and Greg mimics my position on the ground to take my place.

'I'm fine, John', Sherlock insists under Greg's suggestion (but not coercion). 'You need to go.'

_Yes, I do._

I suck it all up. Bottled feelings of incompetence, raw fear, emotional frailty, pure hurt for my friend's pain. None of that matters. As I march up the hill, my mind is detaching from the moment and experienced training is kicking in. It's with the determined mind of the soldier that I walk up to the man trashing on the ground, holding on to his gut, and it's with the trained mind of the doctor that I lean over to assess.

I get punched squarely on my jaw for my good will.

'Don't you dare to try that again!' I growl at the scared killer. Try to punch me, try to harm Sherlock, try to murder innocent people, all of the above — I hardly know what thunderous threat comes out of my mouth, but he stills. Feeling trapped, giving up. With utter confusion he follows my movements as I unveil his wound. 'I'm doctor Watson, by the way. And I'll ensure you live a long life, in jail.'

He's now muttering threats, demeaning me, calling me weak for coming back and help, all the while allowing me to stop the bleeding and save his life. Inwardly, I hate Greg and Sherlock's foresight in knowing I needed to do this. Unworthy as the patient is, all lives matter to a true doctor, and I treat him equally to my patients. Never mind the numb throbbing in my jaw.

Greg better have called in two ambulances. No way these two are travelling together in the same confinement.

I get up at last and look down on the man hollering away. 'Someone will come for you', I state calmly, then walk off leaving him behind, as I rub my jaw absent-mindedly.

Through the natural sounds of the woods I can still hear the sound of the safety being clicked off some small sized handgun. _Of course, a backup gun._ I dive to the ground in an instinctive move, the bullet just misses me by an inch. I glance up at the blemished bark on the soft wood birch tree. Very small caliber bullet — very small gun — maybe holds two bullets at most — luckily. I roll over and sure enough a second bullet gets buried on the ground I've just vacated. I prop myself off the ground and face the killer. The blood loss made his reflexes slightly slower as all his body shivers now.

Heavy footsteps are approaching and Greg appears over the hill, gun ready in his outstretched hand, slightly panting from the race. Immediately he locks his aim on the killer, that eloquently curses off his defeat and raises his arms in the air. 'John, are you—'

I cut my friend off, angrily: 'You left Sherlock alone?'

'John, you were being shot at, of course I—'

_Don't care!_ I walk off to meet Sherlock again, as grumpy and tired as an old army doctor can be.

_**.**_

Paramedics have a tough assignment with our call. They move through narrow winding dirt paths on the woods till they finally arrive, escorted with backups. DI Lestrade gets his men updated with a few sentences and comes back to us. Sherlock is relying heavily on me and a young paramedic to reach the ambulance, but he keeps his demeanour strong.

I notice without paying all the attention it deserves that Greg won't leaves us. I have no doubt he would not leave Sherlock if he was alone, but he sees me here and still won't back out. I realise he's keeping a worried eye on me as well.

Sherlock sits in the ambulance and is immediately showered with attention, he disregards with annoyance.

As I'm boarding Sherlock's ambulance, my phone rings in my pocket. I take it out to turn it off but instead pause and frown. _Mycroft Holmes._

'Anything the matter, John?' Greg is fast to ask, as if he was intent on dividing his attention between Sherlock and me, sitting along with us, abandoning his case.

'It was lovely to have met you, Greg!' I joke with an eye roll and a soothing smile to Sherlock (who has suddenly stopped swatting away all the paramedic's efforts). 'Mycroft.'

"News travel fast, John. How is my brother?"

'Gonna live. Maybe limp for a couple of months, then it's all back to normal', I add, wondering what Normal is, in Sherlock's world.

"Good", Mycroft tells me quietly, but I'd swear I heard him hide a relieved sigh. "I trust you shot the responsible person, John."

I frown. _Of course I did._ 'Yes', I sustain, opting out of mentioning that then I proceeded to save his life. The Hippocratic Oath is a blasted curse.

"Will you be requiring any assistance in making my brother comfortable during his recovery, John?"

I'm frowning so many times that I don't bother releasing my expression anymore. Why is everyone assuming I'll take care of Sherlock? I mean — of course I will, you wouldn't find me anywhere else — but why the immediate assumption?

'I'll get back to you on that one, Mycroft', I say, lowering my head to my hand. Adrenaline fading away, I feel a headache coming on.

"John", I hear Mycroft start with less certainty, "were you hurt?"

I flinch. In all fairness, Mycroft's doubt is logical (I'd hardly open up to tell him if I had been wounded as well) but in this moment in time it sounds ominously like blame assigning. Or even a threat.

'No', I let him know I'm healthy, through closed eyes. The ambulance is picking up speed as we hit the motorway.

"John, I'll have the hospital ready for my brother's arrival. Make sure you message me what you need in Baker Street in order to make my brother's recovery more... pleasant." _Oh, yes, definitely sarcasm there. _He and I have a good idea how it's going to be.

I cut the call, and fake a survival's smile to all my witnesses.

Immediately Sherlock raises his voice: 'I don't need to have my blood pressure monitored, my doctor has already had a look at the scene!' He even points at me.

I sigh. 'Sherlock, will you let the nice paramedic do his job?'

He faces me drily. 'John, I fail to see the point in repeating—'

'_Please_, Sherlock?'

'Fine!' he grumps, with a heavy stare to the young paramedic waiting helplessly for the end of our interaction (couldn't do his job anyway).

I look up at Greg Lestrade, our quiet spectator.

'Whatever you need, John, you've got my help', Greg tells me, bypassing Sherlock entirely.

It really is a worldwide assumption that I'll stay by Sherlock's side during his convalescence — and, yes, of course I will.

_**.**_

Outside Sherlock's examination room I call my workplace and of course not only do they already know I need time off, they've even approved my vacations' leave. _You can't beat the high speed of a motivated Holmes._

I pace around a bit in wait, and open a new text message to Mycroft.

Milk, fresh bread, coffee ...

Fresh linen for my bed upstairs would be appreciated ...

Mrs Hudson ...

He'll know I don't mean kidnap the older landlady and lock her in 221B, I'm sure he has already contacted her to prepare her. _I really need to call Mrs H myself._

A bag of human ears, all left-hand sided if possible ...

That will keep the science genius busy, wondering why he's been limited to the left-hand side. _Must call Molly as well, to let her know._

Chocolate ...

... to bribe the detective, when strictly necessary. _At least a bar a day, then._

Bandages, antibiotics, pain relief tablets ...

I'm sure I still have some medical supplies in Baker Street.

I lower my phone as I notice a nurse leaving hurriedly Sherlock's room. By her flustered expression, Sherlock must have just deduced her. I sigh...

_Last time I was wandering outside a hospital room occupied by my friend, he __had__ been shot in the chest and—_

I bite my knuckles silently as I try to push back the memories that threats to overwhelm me.

_What Sherlock and I do is a dangerous job; so why do I always react with such a startling shock when he gets hurt? Why is there inside me a not-so-good instinctive response of failure and guilt? Me, being around, has saved Sherlock's life so many times. In a stark contrast, it may have enabled him to persist in this dangerous lifestyle and exposed him to further danger._

Sherlock's doctor comes out of the room now (I'm surprised he lasted so long in there, honestly). He crosses a haggard look with me, as if assigning me the patient.

Everyone assumes I'm to be Sherlock's nurse, once again. _Yeah, well, to be honest so do I, and I haven't checked if the patient agrees._

'Doctor Watson, I have assured that our patient is stable and reacting normally to the medication administered. He tells me he wants to be discharged at once and I should', he coughs meaningfully and quotes, ' "hand over the job to John Watson". I assume you are on board with this plan?'

'Naturally', I answer at once.

He nods, tiredly. 'Good luck, doctor Watson.' _You'll need it_, he could have added.

_**.**_


	95. Chapter 95

_(A/N) Context: Sherlock got shot (bullet graze, don't panic!), John is on nursing duties. Part three of still-don't-know-how-many._

_Thanks for hanging on. More to come. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 3**_

221B sounded like heaven to Sherlock and I, tired as we were. Time has ran into the first hours of dawn as the cab pulls up by the familiar green door at Baker Street.

'Hang in there!' I ask the detective, closer as he is to the sidewalk. 'I need to pay the ride, Sherlock.'

Going by the way he frowns in slight confusion I'm left wondering if all those times he left me to pay were just distractions over the basics of everyday life that bear little meaning to a racing mind like his. _Yes, Sherlock, cabbies expect to be paid. At least, the non-psychopaths do._

I pay the patient man, get out of the cab through my door, go around and open Sherlock's door like a faithful concierge. As Sherlock supports himself on the car frame to get out he's already eyeing my little pantomime heavily, not amused.

Soon, we're at the dark green door. After that, there are seventeen steps up to 221B.

_This won't be easy._

Luckily, we're one well oiled team after years of field work. I make Sherlock lean on my shoulders with his arm, pointing out how we need to coordinate our steps.

He shakes his head briefly, instead reaching out to the wall for support.

'Sherlock, I can handle your weight! Don't be insulting', I snap, exhaustion making me too honest. 'Is this because I'm shorter than you?' He arches an eyebrow in honest surprise. I tilt my head. He's not going to pretend he hasn't noticed the height difference now, is he?

'Are you sure...?' he starts. For some reason he's shy on words now.

'Yes. Get a move on.' I grab his arm and cross it behind my neck, grumpy. 'Ready?'

Hesitantly, awkwardly, he gets around the first steps to the stairs. From there on up is a matter of slowly forcing my shoulders down to avoid weighting on his weak leg, the banister on the other side helping him along. Never took good notice of how narrow this stairs are. And apparently long. Seventeen steps, and I never counted them as slowly as I am doing now. Sherlock is a walking talking contradiction. The detective looks skinny, but he seems to weight enough. Or maybe it's just the darn heavy long wool coat he never abandons.

Finally we reach 221B as my left shoulder, the one that once had a bullet through, is throbbing constantly but I won't let him know that. Teamwork pulled it off. I'll give him no reason whatsoever to back off next time we need to do this.

'Okay, Sherlock. It's been a long evening. You've just come out of hospital and you must be tired. Why don't I get you some food and you can go lie down in your room?'

He nods, exhausted, and I disguise a sigh of relief as quickly as I can, not having expected him to make my life easy.

'Welcome home', I say, with my best optimistic smile.

_**.**_

A loud reverberating gunshot echoes through the silent night and its rippling effects shatter my peacefully sleeping mind. _Insurgents have breached the compound again._ No time to hesitate like a child, doctor, you'll be needed soon enough. A second and third gunshots echo in the night, one right on the tail of the other. _How are the blood reserves in the medical tent?_ For the life of me I can't remember. I may as well get myself useful meanwhile. I shrug off the bed sheet as a superfluous indulgence and reach under my pillow. Suddenly I freeze. Where did my Browning L9A1 go? Is this London? Is this Baker Street? _Home?_

I shake my head. Not home anymore. Not mine, anyway. A fourth gunshot and I shiver. _Sherlock has invented a new wakeup call for me._ Bloody hell...

In uncertain steps I get up from my bed and grab my day jumper. I'm feeling cold now. The hand I grab my jumper with is shaking, urging for the promised action. I clench and unclench my left hand. _Not today._

I won't bother calling Sherlock and telling him to stop. I know the model of the gun he's using and he's two shoots away from emptying the barrel. Plenty of time for me to get downstairs. And the neighbours are used to it. Either way, I think he heard my footsteps, in the creaking floor boards above his room.

I wonder, with a sigh; if I stay in the long sofa in the living room, will Sherlock call me the normal way?

Or phone? I glance around in the dark. I must have left my phone in the kitchen. _If_ Sherlock tried ringing, he knew it was worthless.

Bedbound and rebellious, Sherlock's behaviour is just a small stretch away from understandable, I guess.

'Coming, Sherlock! It better be important!' I shout, sounding too soft even to my own ears. I can't give in, I haven't in me the strength to put up with this drama every night, from the maniac that never sleeps.

Jumper on, hand still minutely twitching from time to time — hopefully a dusky 221B will conceal it from Sherlock's attentive probing eyes — I shuffle my footsteps through the stairs, enter the kitchen, the corridor, and stop ay my friend's half-closed bedroom door. I knock, in a gesture born out of politeness and respect — totally lost on Sherlock, apparently.

'Come in, it's just me in here! I shot all the bad guys before you came, John! You were taking forever!' he protests, sarcastically.

'I was sleeping', I lead on, wondering why I bother, and I push the door back. 'Okay, what did you shoot this time? Mrs Hudson—' I stop short, as I spot my friend sitting on the floor rug, back against his trashed bed. Apparently he had decided to sleep with a t-shirt and shorts so I can clearly see the white bandage around his upper leg growing darker. I curse as lean to him at once.

'It reopened', he says, much like a child's confession. The closest thing I'll get to an actual apology.

'I'm sorry', I reply at once, feeling guilty. Sorry I thought you were just messing with me, sorry you got shot, sorry I'm helpless at making it heal faster. 'Here', I grab his wrists and gently cross them behind my neck. 'Hold steady, Sherlock.' I grab him under the armpits, around his strong but lean figure and pull him up in a soft move, hoisting him to the bed he came off. As he sits precariously on the edge of the bed, I'm studying the tenseness of his expression. He refuses to grimace, whimper, curse, or give release to his frustration in any other way. Stoic, strong — dumb. I'll have none of that.

'Sherlock, are you aware that I once had a psychosomatic limp, around the time me met?' I smirk. _"Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you won't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic."_

Finally he smiles back, just a tiny bit, but it makes the whole atmosphere lighter. I reach out to the bedside lamp and turn it on. The familiar room is bathed with light and warmth, fighting the darkness lurking outside the window. 'Out if everyone, I didn't expect you to fall for the old "it's all in the head" thing.' Sherlock frowns in confusion. 'It hurt, Sherlock. It hurt like bloody hell. And the trouble with psychosomatic pain is that it doesn't heal with time alone... Sherlock, I know very well what you are going through. Now, I'm not a genius, I'm not _you_, but I still think I know a bit of how it is for you. So if there's anyone in this world you need to trust to know what it's like, well, I believe it should be me.'

He frowns deeper, still in confusion.

'I trust you, John', he tells me, as I in an obvious reminder. My heart feels warmer all of a sudden.

'Good. That means you are allowed to express yourself. No more of this silent I-can-take-anything crap. Anything you say or do stays in confidence between us. You are not in the middle of nowhere hunting down the Web. You're in 221B. Home. Remember that for me, will you?'

His expression falls into a deep vulnerability, immediately replaced by a quiet cold demeanour. I know I need to give him time to process this in his incredible brain, so I move on to more urgent matters. 'Bathroom. Can you reach it? I need to redress that wound, Sherlock.'

He nods, quietly assenting. I reach out for his arm and roll it over my neck and shoulders again. He gets up slowly, tentative, and flinches as he tries to put some weight on his damaged leg. 'How much longer must I endure this?' he asks me through gritted teeth.

_Too long_, I could have answered him with enough accuracy.

'Be patient, Sherlock. It's only been seven hours.'

He huffs. _Seven hours too long_, he implies.

Sherlock takes the first steps forward and halts again, closing his eyes tight. This would be easier if he hadn't trained his body to be addicted to the opiates in the strongest painkillers. He had an injection at the hospital — now clearing out of his system — and since then he's been on simple tablets. Sherlock agreed with me and the hospital's doctor to it, but, of course, at the time he was under the good drugs. How long till he rebels?

'Come here, you!' I sigh, before in an energetic move designed not to give him a chance to protest, I double over, grab my friend with an arm under his knees and the other arm supporting his back, and heavily hoist him up. Getting too old for this, I realise, as my back complains.

Sherlock grabs on for dear life and shock as I hurry along out of the room as a bride on her wedding day. 'Don't get too used to this, Sherlock!' I strain to say. 'You are going to start eating right. At least till I can't pick you up anymore. There's an incentive for you!'

As I lower him back to the tiled floor by the bathtub, so he can lean on the edge, I can see Sherlock is completely pissed off with me. _No gratitude expected anyway, I recall._

'That was the most idiotic—!' he snarls, on the starting point of some long winded speech.

'You can tell me all about it when I come back with my med kit', I cut him off, turning away momentarily. My back still tingles. This is going to be one long recovery.

'Bring your cane, John', he snaps at me like an order.

Surprised, I make sure: 'Will you use it then?' He refused it adamantly at the hospital, after all.

'Yes... And I'll find alternative use to knock the wind out of you if you ever do that again!'

I smirk all the way upstairs. _His grumpiness, he's learnt it from me._

_**.**_

Plumping Sherlock's pillows as he lies back on his bed, his borrowed cane propped up against the nightstand, I remind him: 'Want a new t-shirt to sleep in?'

'I can do it myself, John! Not a complete invalid yet!'

Fine, he's touchy! I shake my head and summarise: 'Mycroft got us some groceries, I believe. Is there anything you want?'

Sherlock squints thoughtfully at me. 'You look tired, John', he tells me like he's just seen it for the first time._ I would doubt that, lately I've been tired a lot. Yet, sometimes I think Sherlock looks at me and doesn't quite see what is in front of him. The all observant detective always refers to my army posture no matter how much I've been slouching of late, would describe my dirty blond hair not withstanding all the greys, will mock my taste in jumpers not realising I hardly wear jumpers anymore now that Mary got me some new cardigans. It's like he's got this fixed idea of me in his head and he won't let go. That was the John that shared Baker Street with him and admitting I've changed would deny his expectancy of my return (and I do return, as many times as I can). He just didn't quite hope for my return to be while nursing him to health, I bet._

'I'm fine, Sherlock', I assure him, but it's too little too late. He's _seen_ it.

'You don't need to stay, John, I can perfectly well—'

'Nightmares, Sherlock', I cut him short. Just that one word as an explanation, praying he'll leave it at that. Not him, the cases, the killers or Scotland Yard. Me.

'Armchair.'

I blink. 'What?'

'Yours, naturally. I'll still need my own in the living room. If you could spare me yours for the next few days, I'd appreciate having it in this room. I need to alternate between resting in bed and solving cases from a chair, and it should be a comfortable one. I shouldn't be expected to go back and forth in my wounded state.'

'Graze, Sherlock. It's a bullet graze.'

'With muscle damage, John!'

I give up. 'Fine, I'll drag my chair here. Where do you want it?'

He silently points to the only corner where it'll fit.

Five minutes later, the armchair occupies that space, as I lean over its back, panting for breath. Also heavier than it looks.

'Is this okay, Sherlock?' _Don't dare saying No._

'Yes.'

'Well, good night, then.'

'Tea.'

'What?'

'I need tea. I'm thirsty. Possibly dehydrated. Better not risk it.'

I blink. 'Okay.'

Five minutes later (or something like that) I bring him a steaming mug of comforting tea. He looks up from his racing and frowns. 'And a toast, John? Some nourishment, or what passes for it in the middle of the night.'

'Okay.'

_Was he reading the beekeepers manual again? I wonder what he finds so fascinating in it at three in the morning._

Another five minutes — or less, I don't know, I'm losing track — and the toast is smelling nice.

'Look, Sherlock, I...' _I'm really tired, I need to go up._

He bites the toast and pushes it away, giving it back.

'Less butter, please.'

'I can't take the butter out...' I sigh. 'I'll make you a new one, be right back.'

Five minutes — or something — and a new toast. As I turn to leave after Sherlock approves of this toast, he asks, as politely as he never is: 'Can I have an extra blanket?'

I doubt he'll be that cold, but _sure_. I take him my old checkered blanket from the living room.

'Good night, Sherlock', I try to tell him, planning my swift escape.

'Phone.'

Yeah, right. Must be in his long coat. I go and fetch it for him. On the way back I check it for battery, it'll do.

'Your phone too.'

_Why?_ It doesn't even matter and I hand him my phone too. 'I'll need it back, though. In case you need me in the middle of the night. You're running out of bullets.'

'Hm, hm.' He looks all absorbed now, with the two phones side by side. 'I'll give it back in a minute. Have a seat, John.' He waves his hand towards my armchair.

I look at the piece of furniture longingly. Looks cosy. I have a slow sit, lean my head back and close my eyes. Immediately I sink into sleep.

And I sleep for hours uninterrupted.

I come to as the first morning lights filter in the room.

Sherlock is sleeping comfortably in his place, my muscles are sore from my position but it's the first in a long run of nights without the customary nightmares and it has restored my strengths. I get up as silently as I can, pushing away the checkered blanket that covers me, to leave my friend to his peaceful sleep. I'm an intruder here. He must have taken pity in chasing me out of his room.

As I'm walking away I see Sherlock's violin on the bedside table. Don't remember getting it for him, but how else would it be there?

_Oh._ Unless while I was busy taking care of him, he was plotting to taking care of me (in a Sherlock-ian style fashion).

I smile appreciatively to my sleeping friend and go find some breakfast in the kitchen.

_**.**_


	96. Chapter 96

_(A/N) Context: Sherlock was shot; John is on nursing duty at 221B — and this is not your typical h/c fic (because I can't do typical)._

_Part four of I'm-losing-the-plot (__pun__ intended)._

_If you spot terrible errors, please let me know and be patient for their correction. I'm off to a dance lesson. Considering I've got no rhythm, this should be fun (!) -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 4**_

'No.'

Silence.

'John, I was just going to—'

'No.'

Silence again.

'Really? You didn't even—'

'No.'

Blissful silence yet again.

'It's selfish not to share your things, John!' he tells me in a sulking mood, crossing his arms in front of him. Sherlock is sat in his armchair, my old cane leaning against its side. He's allowed small walks in the flat so long as he uses the proper aid, but he's most definitely on a time out from crime scenes and other busier efforts, not to mention criminal chases through London. Looking at the impatient detective one would think he's been subjected to this insipient life for weeks on end. Sometimes even I need to remember he got shot — _grazed_ — just yesterday. The hospital, his predictable insistence in recovering at Baker Street, the whirlwind of the first stages of the patient (this patient!) management.

No matter how much I feel for Sherlock —I know what it's like to get shot — he trust himself to my care and, as a doctor, I know he needs _time_.

'No.'

'But I need it.'

'No, Sherlock, no guns, just _no_.'

He glances hatefully at the conical flasks set on the kitchen window sill, full of assorted chemicals. Not labelled — _you're slipping, Sherlock!_ — clearly a forgotten part of a finished experiment. It doesn't help that my armchair got moved to his room and his view is unblocked to the kitchen window, the image of which seems to be taunting him.

'You're the one always telling me to tidy up, John.'

'Shooting those flasks', I tell him calmly, 'is messy and loud, so _no_, you _cannot_ have my gun.'

Sulking silence, now.

'I got you that gun, John.'

I nod, marking a word on a word search book. 'After you caused me to lose my last gun, Sherlock... Anyway, what kind of word is—' He won't let me finish:

'Come on, John, you're as bored as I am!'

_Yes, Sherlock, but someone needs to be the responsible adult._

Before I can lie my way out of lending him my gun so he can generate mayhem, the doorbell rings a few short precise strokes.

I feel the room turn cold. Not a client. We've got a note posted on the front door _(with sellotape, Sherlock, not_ _a_ _stone studded Persian knife with_ _a_ _curved blade)_ stating that Sherlock is unavailable at the time.

'Mycroft, I assume', I whisper, getting up from the chair at the kitchen table. Just for a second I cross Sherlock's imaginary aim for those conical flasks.

Sherlock shakes his head briefly. 'My brother will keep his distance if he can. Fieldwork is not his milieu.'

I smirk. 'I'm actually surprised he didn't kidnap me yet to ask how you are doing, Sherlock. You know he would.'

My friend rolls his eyes. 'I texted him an update, saved you both the hassle.'

'Cheers... So, downstairs?'

'Lestrade. He saw me bleed and now he has this romantic notion that he needs to drop by to see me not bleeding. He'll even pretend this visit is pleasing.'

'Sherlock, you know he cares.'

'Does he?' My friend rolls his eyes with too much drama to expect me to take him seriously. I give up, and hurry to go open the front door downstairs.

Just like Sherlock predicted, Greg Lestrade stands at our doorway, waiting with his hands down his overcoat pockets and a professional look over the busy street.

'Hi, mate, sorry to keep you waiting. Sherlock is much—'

A couple of gunshots echoing from upstairs cut me off. _The backup gun._ He went for the backup gun.

By my side, Greg has taken his hand to his holt reflexively, realising then by the lack of reaction on the former soldier at his side that this was somehow Sherlock-related. We cross gazes; his is weary, mine is resigned.

'Been a bit tired of being cooped-up, our genius?' There's an amused warm tone of voice from our Yarder friend, as he takes out his mobile instead of the service gun (or handcuffs, this is definitely illegal). 'If I call off the patrol car, can you take the bullets away from Sherlock?'

I shrug. 'That would defeat the purpose of a backup gun, Greg.'

'No way, I've seen before how fast you can load a gun, John...'

He's following me up the stairs to 221B and I ask aloud, knowing Sherlock will be eavesdropping: 'Did you happen to bring any cases over?'

'A couple, if he's up for it. And if _his doctor agrees_.'

I push the door open further and assure: 'I _insist_.'

'Thought so... Hi, Sherlock! How's the leg?'

Our friend huffs as if his leg was a useless piece of biology that insisted on being attached to his genius brain and holds out a steady hand, palm up. 'Hand them over. If you prefer John can make you a tea. I'll solve these while you have it.'

Greg glances back at me. I shrug. _Oh, yeah, he's so bored, he'll get them solved and returned in alphabetical order of the criminal's given name before I can lay out the tea properly._

Greg decides to hand over the sepia coloured folders anyway. I gesture him to the sofa in case he wants to wait it out comfortably, but he keeps himself standing.

Sherlock stops short with a folder half-open in his lap. 'Anything else on the killer I caught yesterday, inspector?'

Greg shrugs, still pondering the jittery detective. 'He confessed right out at the hospital. I was surprised on how easy it was, to tell you the truth. Wanted to file charges on John, but we persuaded him otherwise', he says in purposeful vagueness. He then looks over to me and adds: 'Wasn't right, claiming damages from the man that saved him from bleeding out.'

I shrug. 'I was the one shooting him, I guess that makes us even.'

Sherlock frowns deeper. 'Did the man name his accomplice yet, inspector?'

Greg shakes his head, sternly. 'Left my men working on it, though. And you deduced that his accomplice was the silent obedient partner. I don't expect him to take over the partnership's handiwork, so it's low priority at the moment. We will catch this fellow, though.'

Sherlock hums, thoughtfully, and I quirk the lips in a tiny smile. My friend Sherlock Holmes cannot leave a mystery unfinished, partly because of his restless inquisitive mind, and partly because _it matters_, doing good.

'Look, Sherlock', Greg starts, 'maybe I should spit it right out and apologise for getting you into this case. It got you shot.'

'Grazed', he comments lazily, paying more attention to the folders he's going through at high speed. 'It's part of the Game, Lestrade.'

'Game?'

'There's really not much to it. The good outweighs the bad by 76%.'

I try not to giggle at his seriousness. That's our mad friend, alright, creating algorithms to assess the probabilities of getting shot or otherwise hurt in our dangerous lifestyle and using them as justification. Well, 76% serves his bloody lucky streak so far, too.

The DI, however, is left to stare blankly for a couple of seconds.

'Well, why don't I leave you to those?' he gets up, cancelling the tea with a thankful wave. 'John, if you need anything...'

'He's fine!' Sherlock interrupts, not even looking up.

'John...' Greg insists.

'It's okay, Greg, thanks', I reply, touched. He's a good man.

With one last nod Greg evades 221B swiftly.

'That wasn't particularly nice, Sherlock.' It's an advice in disguise, one that I hardly expect acknowledged.

'He feels guilty', Sherlock says as his eyes scan the pages attentively.

'Well, yes, maybe.'

Sherlock snaps his piercing grey eyes towards me now. 'Am I supposed to lie? Say that our collaboration with Scotland Yard at Lestrade's request from yesterday caused me no great bodily harm?'

I round up on my friend, suddenly incensed. 'No. You are supposed to understand that Lestrade did not meant for it to happen.' _Or me, for that matter, because I failed Sherlock too._

'Irrelevant.'

I'm clenching my fists by my sides. I realise that, and force myself to relax my posture. I turn back the shattered conical flasks in the kitchen and breathe out of my chest: 'For a genius you have plenty of dumb ass moments, Sherlock.'

_**.**_

By the end of the day, Sherlock has successfully solved the cold cases he's been presented with and, more restless than ever, his temper grows darker.

We're at the kitchen, with Sherlock stubbornly setting new conical flasks at the window sill ("algae growth experiment, John, they need light for photosynthesis!" and, just in case, I haven't replenished the bullets on the backup gun). I have long taken a seat by the table, trying hard to defend normality, in the odd chance the detective takes the bait and joins the sanity side.

'Mrs Hudson is out of town, but there's Molly, for instance. We can invite her over.'

'What good would that do?' he snaps in irritation.

'Wonders, possibly, only one way to tell. And Mike, you haven't talked to Mike in ages. He—'

'I don't want anybody to see the state I'm in, John!' Sherlock explodes, flailing his arms about, frustrated with his captivity.

_Sherlock was fast to point out to the potential flatmate he met at Bart's the hunger for action he saw under the controlled poise, but failed to point out how much of a kindred soul he can be at times. Living with Sherlock Holmes has been a rollercoaster of high frenzied episodes and low brooding moods one after the other. If I had to chose, I'd always choose this maddening chaotic fulfilled genius from the self-pitying stagnated child that shot up walls just to elicit a reaction from me, from the world, that ultimately proved he was still fighting to surface when the world was apparently the bleakest._

'I've been seeing you, I'm here, and I think you're doing great, Sherlock', I tell him patiently. I know I'm just aggravating him when I see him huff in contempt. I was rather hoping to be able to finish the day peacefully. I even pick up yesterday's paper left at the table, trying to move on. He angrily turns away from me, impatient, his effervescent mood barely concealed under the surface.

'You don't count!' he snaps, angrily.

I fold the paper back down by its creases, put it down, and coldly, deliberately, look up.

From the kitchen window Sherlock looks back at me, sensing my mood at once.

'Not nice?' he asks experimentally, a bit touch and go.

Telling a friend he doesn't count? 'Not nice', I verify his suspicions calmly.

'Not like that', he mutters. I raise an eyebrow. He rolls his eyes to hold on to the upper hand but particularises: 'I don't know why, but it's different with you. I don't feel... exposed.' He scrunches his face. Speaking of feelings is not logical for the detective, turning him less than eloquent.

'Cheers.' I pick up the paper again, hiding the warmth that tiny declaration brought to my face. There's only so much mushiness to fit in this conversation. Thinking the moment is over, I'm surprised as he continues:

'You understand me, John. You always do. Plus, you've been afflicted with a similar condition.'

'If by similar you mean being shot in the leg, well, no. I wasn't. My mind was sure I had been, though.' I turn the page, slowly. _ This is a painful admission for me, no matter how much a doctor like me should know it can happen. That the mind, unable to cope with ...too much... actually expresses physically its grievance. Quite loudly in my case, I can assure. The cane was not a tourist souvenir I picked up in the Middle East, thank you._

'Same outcome, in all practicality', he minimises, for my benefit.

'Sherlock, this will go away. It just takes time.' I clear my throat. 'There's little more I can do, I'm not a magician.' I shake my head regretfully. 'You can always ask Greg for more cases that you can solve from the flat. It'd do you good, clear your head a bit.'

Sherlock reaches out to the chair closest to him, pulls it out and slumps himself elegantly in it. His eyes are shining like he's just found a new case, as he repeats, meaningfully: 'There is little more you can do. That's what you said. So there _is_ something. Not a treatment, we've exhausted those options.' His grey eyes are shiny steal metal pinning me in my seat now. 'We've done all we can at this stage... Yes... There are more stages... Good... John, we'll start with the next stage already, no time to waste. Exercise my leg, strengthen the other muscles so they can compensate by taking the most of the effort while the tissue rebuilds?'

'Not advisable. You have fresh stitches, Sherlock.'

'You'll be careful', he tells me, confidently.

'Sherlock, we can't rush through—'

'Just what you can do, John, I trust you!' he insists of me, tense, a shiver undisguised in his voice.

_Something might be wrong with me. At the sight of my frazzled friend, I'm hating the caught killer more for what he's doing to Sherlock than all the murders he committed._

_**.**_


	97. Chapter 97

_A/N: Part 5! Oh my... So much for my summary! I've been letting this one carry on. Blame my writer's subconscious fear of emptiness because this past week I pondered finishing this collection at 100, and we're fast approaching it._

_Context: Sherlock got shot, he's restless, and John tries to ease him through the ordeal. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 5**_

'John, why do you stay?'

The emotionally raw question pierces the silence as I'm standing at the stove, stirring some cooking, with one hand, and thumbing my phone with the other hand. I halt both activities at once and look back to the living room, where Sherlock is quietly tending to his violin, sat in his armchair, not even looking at me.

'Sorry?'

'You heard me, John. Why do you stay? By the added pressure you're applying on your phone's screen, I can tell you are frustrated. Adding to that your character defining adrenaline chase, this inactivity is clearly not agreeing with you. Whatever unpredictability I can muster along the day is hardly a match for your usual expectations of me.'

_"Whatever unpredictability?" As if he's acting like a rotten kid as a favour to my "adrenaline chase"!_ _That does it!_ I turn the stove off, chuck the phone on the kitchen table and clear my throat. '_Firstly_', I point less than patiently to my abandoned phone, 'that was Mary. You know she's away because of work. Well, surprise!, she still wants to know how you are doing.'

'She could have asked me', he tells me, sulkily.

'She did', I say flatly.

'I told her I was okay.'

'I was a bit more thorough in answering.'

He puts his violin aside. 'You've always been very words-y.' Sherlock's twirling hand mid-air adding to his words' effect. 'You always go the extra mile when less would suffice, John. I told Mary the important part.'

'You said "I'm fine" and that was it.'

'Well, I am.'

'Looking in from a mile away, yes, you are fine, Sherlock.'

'Take your blog, for instance. You often describe clients' appearance when that clearly has no bearing in the case they bring whatsoever, and—'

I cut him short. '_Secondly...'_

He rolls his eyes and gestures politely: 'Proceed, I you must.'

'Secondly, I volunteered to be here. There was no obligation.'

'Lestrade, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson expected you to be here.'

'They know me well enough. Still, it wouldn't be the first time I'd surprise them. No, the way I see it, I volunteered.'

'You'd feel guilty for not taking me on as a part of your chosen medical profession.'

I smirk. 'Still a choice there, Sherlock. And you know what else? I chose right. I'm still here because I want to.'

'You could go, you know. I'm much better with the cane, and I'm perfectly capable of functioning independently.'

'Good, there will be some dishes for you to wash tonight.'

'On the other hand...'

'Thought so.' We're both smirking now. '_Thirdly_', I carry on, with a tired sigh, 'I'm your friend.'

He blinks twice. 'If you're implying this is what friends do, I can tell you not all friends—'

I cut him off again: 'Possibly not all friends, no.'

'May I remind you, doctor Watson, of your recovery when you came home from Afghanistan?' _Match point for Sherlock Holmes. "...You're a war hero who can't find a place to live..."_

I look away, at the memory of dark lonely times.

'Yeah, well...' I straighten and stiffen my shoulders. 'I had what was coming to me. It had been years since I left London and hardly kept in touch. Life in a warzone is too absorbing and any other reality seems detached and farfetched. I let people slip away from my grasp, and they let me go as well.'

Sherlock frowns. 'Are you saying friendship is dependent on time and space?'

I frown too. 'Shouldn't be', I realise. _Am_ _I __too idealistic?_

'So, people forgot the happy incidents of camaraderie they had with you, in the time you were away?'

Exasperated, I let my voice rise. 'Sherlock, you just don't turn up on people's doorsteps as a wounded veteran and act like nothing changed!'

'So, it was you who pulled away?' He looks sincerely trying to understand this and it just makes it more hurtful.

'No one pulled away, Sherlock! To most people I was long dead by then. I went to a war and we lost contact. Natural deduction: I'm dead!'

Sherlock ponders slowly: 'Hardly a deduction, more inferred than deduced, I'd say.'

I'm yelling now. 'I-don't-care! I'm trying to tell you that to my old friends, that carried on their lives, I was as good as dead! And, honestly, I felt dead inside anyway, who was I to disagree with them?'

Sherlock grabs hold of the leather armrests on either side of him, as if his long violinist fingers were attempting to claw their way inside. The rest of his demeanour is calm, pondered, distant. It shocks me with its fierce intensity.

'John Watson, are you telling me you had given up?'

I raise my chin proudly. 'Not yet.' _But I was very near._

'Good. If there's something I know about John H. Watson that you don't seem to know about yourself, is that John H. Watson never gives up. Never.'

'Well, then.' I swallow thickly. 'I'm not giving up on you either. Are you, Sherlock Holmes, pushing me away?'

The cold mask falls from his light green coloured eyes for his answer: 'No, John. I don't want to push you away.'

'Good, then we've discussed this topic enough for today, I'd say... Hungry? You know what? Don't bother answering. You're eating. It'll be ready in twenty minutes.'

I turn back to the kitchen, trying to breathe deeply and steady myself. This is what I do, I take care of people. Silently, sulkily, if necessary.

If the killer that shot Sherlock wasn't in custody already, I'd go hunt him down right now.

_**.**_

In an improvised act the medical association would frown upon, Sherlock is lying across the long sofa and I'm sat transversally on the coffee table. Carefully I've raised his left leg and gently I'm helping him fold his leg at the knee to quickly assess his range of movement after the injury.

'You're not taking notes, John. You should be taking notes', Sherlock snaps, through gritted teeth.

'Don't need to. Still a preliminary assessment here.'

'Not very professional, doctor Watson.'

I sigh. 'Wasn't even supposed to be your doctor, remember? Your brother brought to 221B the best experts in the UK. Extend now.'

'I didn't work well with them', he tells me, aloof, as he extends his injured leg.

I roll my eyes. 'We're not talking about Anderson when I first started going with you to crime scenes, Sherlock . These men are the best. Most of us are not as lucky to have had even the chance of a consultation with them.'

Sherlock's leg now completely relaxed back on the sofa's cushions, he turns grey tinged eyes to me. 'You said "most of us"...'

'These doctors are very good, and they work for the most important clients, Sherlock. They are not exactly on army's payroll.'

His grey eyes get even cloudier before he looks away.

'They wouldn't have helped you much. Your pain was in your head, John.'

No sugar coating with Sherlock. I nod. 'True.'

'I didn't throw them out like you imply, John. I simply pointed out quite logically their inefficiency.'

I frown; _what?_ 'One of them, the elderly one, left here almost in tears, Sherlock.'

'He was telling me about his five diplomas. I'm sure he keeps them all nice and dusted on golden frames in his office wall.'

'Five diplomas? You can't accuse him of not keeping up to date', I defend a fellow doctor.

'I tested that. He knew very little about mitochondrial DNA cloning in a lightly acidic environment.'

'Cloning.' I death state at him. 'Your doctor didn't know enough about cloning, so he couldn't take care of a gunshot wound, Sherlock... We are not in a Sci-fi movie, you know?'

My friend raises himself on the sofa pillows, supported on his elbows. Our gazes meet evenly at that height. Only then he assures me: '_You_ are my doctor. I'm a scientist, I value the practical experience over the empirical one alone. John, you've been through this yourself, that makes you the most qualified expert in the country.'

'Unless one of those experts got shot too', I add, grimly.

'I did ask that to Mycroft', he nods.

'To find someone that got shot, or to shoot them?'

He shrugs, looking away, and I smirk.

_**.**_

Mrs Hudson came back, all fuss and motherly worrying over Sherlock, in a hurricane of care and telling offs. Come to think about it, Martha Hudson must have cut her holiday short at the first hint of troubles. _Her boys_, as she calls us sometimes, _alone in Baker Street with no one to take care of them?_

_Apparently that's a no-no in her world._

So, as the older lady settled back in her 221A flat, I helped a renewed spirited Sherlock to gather both his wits and cane, and go downstairs for a visit and welcome her back. Mrs Hudson suggested she could come upstairs — she was never shy on dropping in at any time — but a change of air was undoubtedly good for Sherlock, and there was something about whisking up blueberry muffins in a jiffy, souvenirs for us to be found in her travelling bag, as well as allowing her to settle back after a long journey.

Seventeen steps down were somehow more scary than going up, as I feared Sherlock's leg would give in at the wrong time, causing him to tumble. On top of me, in fact, as he denied any hands-on help and relied solely on his cane. So I settled for being always a couple of steps ahead of him, ready to grip him if he slipped.

In the end, it was a victorious experience, and we joined Mrs Hudson's bright flowery blue kitchen for all the catching up gossip required.

'Sherlock...' she started sadly, as she poured the blueberry batter into moulds, 'what have you done to yourself this time, young man?'

'Work, Mrs Hudson!' he denies anything amiss. He's assigning the china wear (the butterflies one, as it makes so much sense in the flowery wallpaper enwrapped kitchen, I notice), and I'm getting the kettle on.

'And you, John? Where were you?' she inquires in the same sad tone. I can feel myself blush. Yes, I was there, and Sherlock _still_ got shot.

'John shot him down', Sherlock answers for me, like a protective brother.

'That's the spirit, John!' she smiles, naturally.

I giggle. Baker Street's a crazy family, for sure. Mrs Hudson glances at me as if she really cannot tell what is the funny side of it all. I sober up fast — no fun in shooting people, of course not — and diverge by volunteering: 'Why don't I go get some fresh milk from upstairs? I'll be right back...'

She nods distractedly, fussing over the weight of the china in Sherlock's hands.

'Intensive care, John?' she stills confirms.

I frown. She means the killer I shot. _Well, yes._ She reads the answer easily in my expression and nods. 'That's my John', she says sweetly. 'Sherlock, I don't want you to get tired!'

I slip away with a lingering smile.

As I'm going through the hall, there's a soft rapping at the front door. I sigh. Mrs Hudson must have taken down Sherlock's note on not being open for cases. _And in that case she found the deep gash on the wood that the Persian knife left behind as it held the note._ She'd definitely do that, knowing Sherlock needs to have a puzzle to chew on.

As a doctor, I think it's too early for the sleepless, brain ransacking, physically draining cases.

With a spring in the step I open the front door, apologising already: 'Sorry, Sherlock's not taking cases, he's—'

A heavy man with an evil gaze is taking advantage of his bulkiness to keep from passersby view the gun he points directly at my heart.

'He always makes exceptions for motivated clients', I correct, cold but not phased by the gun's presence.

'Take me to Sherlock Holmes', he directs me with a roughened voice.

_No._

'Sure', I nod, and lead him up the stairs to 221B.

_I need a plan. It doesn't include Sherlock._

We go up the stairs in a quiet and civilized way, my mind is working at a high speed, testing scenarios and strategies for a way out.

Keeping Sherlock out of the loop is paramount.

This man is the caught killer's accomplice, the one Sherlock didn't take seriously. Sherlock thinks he's the quiet silent partner. Even if this is a bit more exposure than I'd have ventured for a subdued partner, it's still no reason to get Sherlock involved. He needs to rest.

I'm assuming I can gain some time by pretending to search the flat for the missing detective with this man on my tail. Maybe if I can get Greg's help. Or, heaven forbid, Mycroft Holmes if things get complicated...

I push open 221B's door and all hell breaks prematurely loose. A violent wack on the back of my head from his gun shoves my forward in stumbling paces, as I fight through the breaching pain in my head to reach the living room table before I collapse.

_He thinks Sherlock's here, that's what I told him, and he's taking me down to get to the higher value prey._

_He's not very smart._

_So much for strategy, captain Watson!_

Soon, he's grabbing me again with a tight grip, and before I can gather my balance, he swings me forwards against the living room's table, where I crash helplessly, in a fresh bundle of pain.

'Sherlock!' I try to rasp out, but it comes out meek, and I know straight away he won't have heard me, no one will come. The only thing I can do now is hold this guy off Sherlock — so close and so far.

I turn around and sock the daylights out of this creep. He only retreats slightly, before quickly recovering his ground. He backs one tight fist before swinging it back revengefully.

Again I fall over the living room's table, fighting my way out of the vicious attacker's grasp again, desperately feeling my way through the table's clutter. Finally, my fingers clasp around familiar cold metal.

I take the gun in my hand, his hands are wrapping around my neck, animalistic, constricting my airway, making me dizzy with pain. Desperately I clutch the gun, extend my arm backwards — _someone is about to get shot in a leg so he'll politely stop strangling me_ — and pull the trigger blindly.

An innocent sounding click follows my victorious effort, crumbling my anticipated success. No bullets on the small backup gun. Sherlock used them all on conical flasks.

As I'm clinging on to my last breath, wondering how long for I can extend it, a second blow to the back of the head turns my lights off. As I'm falling down the dark pit of unconsciousness, I feel the grip around my neck lessen at last.

_I'm needed alive for now._

_**.**_


	98. Chapter 98

_(A/N) Context: Sherlock got shot (grazed) and Mrs Hudson's blueberry muffins might have just spared him from being abducted alongside John by the caught killer's accomplice. That it all happened within walking distance of each other was just for irony's sake. _

_Last part now. A bit long. (Sorry.) -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 6**_

I wake up slowly, fighting my way through a headache in a dusky enclosed space. The trickling of channeled water is a constant input, not far away. It's damp and musky, but also cold, as if this place — wherever it may be — has been closed for a very long time. Which reminds me: how long have I been here?

My movement is impeached, as I try to bring my hands out from behind my back. I finch, my headache extending to my neck and left shoulder is becoming incendiary. My hands are securely tied, and I decide to rest like this for now. Over the dirty floor, I roll to my right side, controlling my breathing and the nausea that threatens to overpower me. The world outside my captivity can wait. There are other ways a soldier can get the answers he craves.

Belatedly I recall the circumstances of my "lights out" moment. The gun didn't work, I never let on that Sherlock was downstairs, and this creep is anything but the quiet silent partner anymore.

I did my bit. I got him distracted from Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. I know that because I'm alive, right now. No reason to keep me alive other than to lure Sherlock.

In this terrible predicament, it's only the hope filled intrusive thought that Sherlock Holmes can figure this out, that keeps me focused. You see, Sherlock wouldn't just ignore my absence. Sherlock would be a royal pain about his temporary, overqualified, nurse's disappearance. My abduction might just come as an oasis in a desert vacant of good cases. I know he'll take my case. Even if just to get the upper hand in nagging me to return to 221B services. Good old Sherlock... I lower my head slowly, tiredly. That pain is seemingly all consuming, except for my hopes.

And if — or _since _— Sherlock is doing his part on my rescue, I need to do mine. Sherlock will have a hard time finding me in this spider-filled garden shed or such (and I hate spiders, by the way). In a friendship, it's always a kind gesture to meet our friend halfway, right?

So, slowly. Trying not to aggravate further my shoulder now — must have travelled all the way to this secluded garden shed-like space on top of it; don't think I was further harmed after the creep knocked me out — I slide my hands behind my back so to grab hold of my jacket's fabric and twist it. I need to reach my front pockets. There I'll find what I need. I've got a small first-aid rounded-tip pair of scissors. Great for cutting bandages and opening clothes that sit on top of wounds. The doctor in me might just have hoarded a solution for the soldier in me. Taking care of Sherlock — always so volatile and full of antics about hospitals that I keep a medical stash ready for any and every emergency we get — might be saving my life. Considering that it's my association with Sherlock that got me endangered to begin with, that makes us even.

The ropes behind my back snap after a long effort to break them up thread by thread. I've kept my best pace, forcing my shoulder into protesting numb throbs that knock the air off my lungs. Freedom comes with a price, I suppose.

My pockets don't seem to have been purged of their usual contents, but my phone is tragically missing. Come to think of it, it's quite lucky I was even wearing this coat, and it takes some effort to recall that Mrs Hudson's flat had been empty for a few days, with the heating off. I grabbed Sherlock's dressing gown for him, and seeing his haste I just grabbed my black jacket for myself as a fast solution.

Carefully studying the small shed around me, I get up close to the door, where a good lock keeps me inside. _A bit of an overkill, considering how I was tied up; should I take it as a compliment?_

Kneeling on the dirty floor by the lock I choose a pair of pointy tweezers from my pocket's med kit and try to channel my inner Sherlock to pick the lock. This is usually Sherlock's bit. He always implies that I'm a very impromptu burglar at best.

Ordinarily, I'd try to break the door off its hinges with a good old push, but the insistent triad head-neck-shoulder would tell me off for it. So, picking the lock it is...

As I work on it the best I can, it hits me that a locked door is meant not only to keep me inside, but to keep others from reaching me. So, I'm definitely not in the middle of nowhere. I hear no more signs of civilization than the running water, and I can't begin to imagine where I am.

It also shows premeditation. The lock on the door is new and sturdy. Hopefully there's some paper trail leading Sherlock here.

Amazingly, and no short of a small miracle, the lock gives in as I twist the tool around to start again. That is to say, when I wasn't trying. Must have been doing in wrong all along. Sherlock needs to teach me this burglary business. It'll keep him occupied during recovery too.

Slowly I push open the shed door and take in the scenery outside. This is _not_ someone's back garden.

A vast expanse of natural grounds is before me, lighter and brighter than the duskiness behind me. A worn out trail is scarcely visible as it crosses the trailing ivy's mat, the pungent smell of wild garlic blossoming in white flowers rising from the warm ground. Marking tall vertical lines are poplars and birch trees, mingling their translucent leaves roofing to further obscure the visibly lowering afternoon sun. The temperature is dropping, and the dampness of an artificial lake and dam is more acute now. That's another worry for me, as time is elapsing and I may need to handle a night in the cold wilderness. Nothing an experience soldier can't do, but building a fire is a practicality that may just denounce to my kidnapper that I got free and get him back on my tail. Most of all, common sense dictates that I need to gain distance from the place of my captivity.

From across a smallish hill up ahead a bunch of birds sets flight and it marks the familiarity of the scene. The garlic smell, the types of trees, the chirping of the birds, it all points out to these being the woods we trailed days ago to find the man that ultimately would shoot Sherlock. These are the grounds and vegetation that Sherlock, Greg and I ran across, desperate for every little mark and evidence that the killer was leaving behind. Little did we knew the soon to come events we were chasing at the time.

Today I'm the chased one, the hunted prey. And it feels like a cheap trick just to tie me up and leave in a lost locked shed in the middle of the woods. Why didn't the accomplice finish me off when he had the chance? Did he plan to leave me here to come back later, or for me to freeze and starve slowly over the next few days? None of those actions seems to be the logical course of action for the man that went to Baker Street and daringly kidnaped me from under Sherlock's watch (and possibly Mycroft's team too).

Was he after Sherlock and got the wrong hostage?

No, he was after the both of us, but particularly one. And it wasn't the detective foremost. It was me. Taking the sidekick from the genius, copying what has effectively been done to him.

Leaving us to fend for ourselves alone.

Like often in associations between two very distinct people, one becomes more the beacon for rationality, with the other juxtaposes the arguments with the emotional reactions. I suppose that could be said for Sherlock and I, and not bring the brain myself — _mind you, I'm clever, just not at genius level_ — that leaves me to point out what his heart might be to accustomed to be silenced about.

If that was a general rule, then the man I shot and Greg arrested was the brain in the partnership. That leaves out here the most treacherous and unpredictable one — the heart.

As I go look at the small dam (maybe there's a boat, or some line of communication with the civilised world out here), I come across something entirely different.

Out there, in the freezing murky water, there are the diffused silhouettes of people. Not alive people, and my stomach turns. Dead bodies entombed in the cold water that slowly trickles up ahead, naturally decaying, but still vivid treasured memories for the pair of wicked serial killers.

_**.**_

Like it's often the case, the apprentice has outdid his master in terms of violent rage. Whereas the killer in Scotland Yard caught pursued his own compulsion, this damaged man was blindsided by his admiration, becoming more devious and deranged than his leader. He has taken death to an art form, not because he was following the instincts of a serial killer, but to elicit pleasure from pain and destruction, the logic of which defies common sense for it is not his logic, it is the degraded reflection of someone else's sickening lifelong work. It's as much of a tribute in itself as it is a revengeful act. And if Sherlock won't hurry, I'll be the next victim of his started rampage.

Innocuous helper, he's not, Greg! You should have kept all your men in this case.

Too late now, only justice for the victims can still be attained.

That's why I need to run fast, faster even, because I sensed I'm not alone in these woods. I was being watched. An unexplained twig snatched and all my army instincts flared. He made my escape possible by allowing me to retain the tools I needed to escape.

Now it's about survival.

As I'm running up a hill, I know this is the wrong thing to do. My ragged breathing and marked footsteps are giving my position away. I need to think strategically. Being an army captain taught me that. Sherlock taught me that. Why am I not using what I've learnt?

Finding a sturdy tree, I climb up. I can take vigil of the grounds around me and defend myself from above. Well, when I say _defend_...

Then I see the killer. He was trailing not far behind me. The heavy man is panting from the workout I'm providing, his high blood pressure evident in his reddened face. He's armed and searching me with the mindfulness of an obsessive task.

As he's coming under the tree I let go and fall on him, immediately wrestling him to the ground. I may be lighter but the army taught me a thing or two about combat.

_He might have been in the army at some point, because he's putting up a good fight._

In a desperate act, I kick him off me as he's going for my neck again, and getting up, I start running for his gun. The firearm was projected away from him when I fell over him, landing further atop the small hill, almost at the brink.

As my fingers are about to touch cold metal, there's a brisk movement behind me. _He's not getting up._ Instead, he seems to be reaching for another weapon...

_Always a backup gun, with these guys..._

It all happens at once, a shot echoes in the chilled woods as I lose my balance and fall backwards down the other side of the hill.

'John!'

I'd swear I heard Sherlock's panicked voice right then.

A second shot echoes right on the trail of the first.

Then only silence fills the woods.

_**.**_

'John!'

This time I'm sure Sherlock is here and he's not an auditory hallucination of an adrenaline filled mind. I'm stunned and utterly appreciative.

'Sherlock!' I call back, relieved.

Soon he appears up on the hill top, breathless and stubborn, fighting my old cane for support on the uneven grounds.

'The killer...' I warn, also breathless.

'He's no longer a concern. Lestrade is coming, he'll take control.' Slowly, Sherlock starts making his way down the hill to meet me. 'It's safe now, John.'

'Yes. And this time I may be the one coming up with the leads to present to Scotland Yard', I add, thinking about the gruesome dam.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, only that.

'Lestrade should be happy. He hardly believed that you had been taken from Baker Street.'

I frown. 'How did you know, anyway?'

'Mycroft', he confesses. 'Occasionally, my brother has his uses.'

'Well, he tends to be omniscient. I mean, he knew right away you had been shot. Does he keep your vitals under radio check with some microchip?'

Sherlock grimaces. 'No, and don't give him ideas. No, it was Greg, obviously. He was feeling guilty, thought the family reunion would cheer me up. Or he was pressured into snitching, hypothetically as it may have been, in one of my brother's kidnappings.' As I frown, he smirks. 'No, John, it's not just you. Practically everyone has been kidnapped by Mycroft.'

_This sounds a lot like Sherlock's "everybody is an idiot, don't be like that" speech._

Finally he comes by my side, and I find, strangely enough, that I'm still settled on the ground. Given my dirtied clothes from my dive to skew away from the bullets, Sherlock is silently assessing my condition. Finally satisfied, he gives out his hand.

I take my best friend's outstretched hand and let him help me up to my feet. The moment I stand on my left foot a hot pain shoots up through my leg. _Oh no._ Unbounded, the imaginary of Sherlock and I both limping about 221B comes to mind. We're a sort lot.

'John, what is it?' Sherlock doesn't fail to see my discomfort and he's again staring at me with caring observant green eyes.

'Sprained ankle', I rasp through gritted teeth. He takes one look down at my foot and one look back up to my face.

'Now? How?' he asks, non-genius-like.

'When I rolled down hill, obviously', I answer simply, relishing I the fact that on the medical-related field I'm the one deducing to Sherlock every once in a while.

_Well, to tell the truth, he's not so bad at diagnosis himself, when he's all fired up on crime scenes or morgues. Or tombs, twice that I've seen. And exhumations, once._

'Not to worry, Sherlock. You are not losing your nurse so easily', I tell him, accepting his help to steady myself on my healthy foot.

'Nonsense.' He takes his hone out and dials a number at once.

'Who are you calling? Greg? Didn't you say he was right behind you?' Maybe a bit more behind than that.

'Mycroft.'

The imaginary of Mycroft on nursing duties sends an honest shiver down my spine. '_No_, Sherlock', I refuse at once.

Sherlock frowns as he tries to understand me. In his defence, when he does, Sherlock can't stop himself from wincing.

'Not like that, John! He's insufferable!'

My turn to frown. _Then what?_

Sherlock winks at me — he actually winked, I'm sure of it, though he'd deny it if I told anyone — and speaks lazily to his phone: 'Mycroft, I trust saving the modern world is not making you too busy?... Yes, there is a purpose to this phone call. John and I need a ride home. Nothing too fancy or flamboyant. A small helicopter will do. I'll text you the GPS coordinates. There's a clearing just the right size for one of those choppers you keep behind Downing Street.' And with this he hangs up. 'Don't be silly, John. Mrs Hudson can help.'

'She's our landlady, not our mother, Sherlock!' I reproach. He takes dramatic offense.

'I'm trusting you to never tell her that, John! Hurt the poor woman's feelings like that, shame on you!'

I think I'm blushing, but I need to defend Mrs Hudson's health (because the woman is a saint, she'd do anything for Sherlock): 'She's got a bad hip, she can't nurse us!'

'You are being delusional now, John. Possibly a light concussion is to be accounted for. Your eyes are focused, but we may need to keep watch on your unbalanced stance.'

I shoo away the hand with which he's trying to probe my hairline. 'That's because my ankle is sprained!' I almost shout, keeping my temper with difficulty.

'Irritability too. Is that a symptom of concussion, John?' he asks me, in all seriousness.

'I'm fine!' I push him away angrily to try to walk off. Immediately the pain knocks me back to the ground, where I fall, unsupported. Frustrated. Exhausted. I just allow myself to seat on the dirt ground like an ungraceful child, and hide my face in desperate hands.

Sherlock keeps quiet at my back, as I'm hiding away from the world and my vulnerability. I've been trying to carry the world in my shoulders, and Sherlock's world too, _and now it's me_. I should be angry, or hurt, or frustrated... but I'm just so tired. All these days worrying, planning, caring, I didn't mind any of that. They were about me taking control, doing some good. Now I can't do that anymore. Tripped over some rock, landed badly on my foot, and all my power to restore the world to its proper axis is taken away from me. I'm helpless and useless and so ...damn... tired.

'Don't be silly, John. It was never about the physical therapy exercises, or the help up the stairs, and most certainly it wasn't about that _hateful_ time when you carried me in your arms.'

I unbury my face from my hands and look up at my friend. Sherlock seems to have been waiting for my reaction before continuing: 'All that was ...nice... and useful, John, but hired help would have done all that. Except carrying me in their arms, I suspect it's against health and safety regulations.'

'Is this a variation from your "you don't count speech"?' I ask, blankly, so tired.

'_Just drop it, John_, please, enough with that self-deprecating modesty! I mean it was about you being there when I needed it. When I was in the most pain, when it scared me because I've only had one experience at getting shot before and the shooter was far more proficient, it was about you reaching out to me in my comfort zone and prompting me to trust you. Always you, John. So, yes, I'm glad I didn't take my brother's offer of medical staff on standby, I'm glad I didn't go to the best physical therapy clinic for the early assessment, I'm glad that if someone was to touch me, it was you. Anyone else would have been perceived far too intrusive... So, yes, I can see how this is, in fact, a variation of the "you don't count speech". You seem to be the exception, John.'

'Oh.'

'There's one major flaw with your concussed speech, though...'

'I'm not concussed', I intervene, he ignores me.

'I've been doing much better with the cane. Exhibit A: I came here and got you free, John.'

'I got myself free before you came, Sherlock.'

'Teamwork, John. There's no "I" in "team". With a second cane and a little help from Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly...'

'Not Mycroft, though.'

'God, no, the helicopter is enough... With a little help we can pull this off, doctor.' Again he extends his hand out to help me. 'The helicopter will be here in three minutes, I estimate. One last effort, John', he asks, looking towards the clearing up ahead. 'Are you up for it?'

Our hands connect with a solid grasp. 'Yes.'

'Good.'

'Oh, and Sherlock...?'

'Hm?'

'You're doing the dishes tonight.'

'Nonsense, John. We can always get new dishes', he rolls his eyes at the mundane task. 'Take those conical flasks that needed washing up, for instance...'

'Sherlock, you are getting a dishwasher.'

'Honestly, John, you are obsessing with the dishes!'

'We're not getting new dishes every meal!'

'Where would we put it anyway?'

'The kitchen's already cluttered, so why would you care?'

'Fine, John, if it means that much to you, I'll get one next Christmas.'

'I don't want a dishwasher as a Christmas gift!'

'Then why did you come up with it?'

I groan. We'll be bickering all the way back to 221B, and beyond. Good thing helicopter rides are always loud, Greg wouldn't be able to stand us.

_**.**_


	99. Chapter 99

_A/N: Apologies if the last one had a few portions held together by (imaginary) sellotape. I hadn't really planned ahead on that storyline._

_This one is short and silly. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

This evening I just walked myself into 221B. Sherlock was expecting me – I always go by Baker Street on Thursdays, the craziest day of the week and the one I get off work early at the clinic. One would expect that after what may have been about two months of this new work schedule Sherlock would have noticed a pattern and he'd be expecting me. _For that and because I told him "See ya Thursday!" last time around._

Yet, as I walk into the familiar surroundings of 221B, I realise I'm the centre of attention, in a way I haven't been expecting.

'Look, if you're busy, I can... come back...' I start, doubting what I see more and more in familiar living room. 'Is that my old jumper, pinned on the wall?' I'm sure of it. Slightly off-centred from a whirlwind of papers and sticky notes.

Sherlock snaps his neck towards me, as if he's been yanked out of deep considerations and just took notice of me there. It must be bad, _whatever it is_, if he didn't notice my arrival up the stairs. There's that creaky step and the door banging shut downstairs, even the nearing footsteps should have drawn the detective's attention.

'Hm, Sherlock...?' I coach him along.

Sherlock prepares for a long rambling, he's tense, maniac even. He looks like he has hardly slept since yesterday, in the least. When he speaks he just tells me: 'Kidnapping case, John!'

I frown. 'No, I took the tube here... So, what happened?'

My eyes widen as I take further steps inside and have a proper look at the second layered impromptu wallpaper over the long sofa.

There's my birth certificate (..._Hamish_...), my contract at the clinic, my blood type, my signing up contract with the army, the latest grocery shopping receipt, my gym membership; but what really draws my attention is a black and white copy of a childhood picture. Haven't seen _that_ in years. The Watson family all together in front of what it was at the time to be the sixth(?) new family home we were moving into. My mother, with her bright smile, wouldn't fail to draw a smile to my lips as well, even before I took notice of my father and my sister Harry.

'Oh', I hear Sherlock say softly. Hardly realising how that picture had begged me closer, I look to the side, to my friend, inquiringly. He's moved himself towards the window, the daylight filtering in obscuring his expression now, while I'm receiving all the light on me.

'Your mother has your smile in that picture', Sherlock explains, with a touch of shyness all of a sudden.

'I'm sure it's meant to be the other way round, it's her smile I have', I comment, loosing myself in that old picture again. 'She died', I report gently then my eyes catch another official looking document pinned on the wall. 'Well, you knew that.'

'Only learnt that yesterday, actually', Sherlock excuses himself, all business-like again. He's shuffling around the room, giving me time to catch up or collect myself.

'Sherlock... why are you studying me?'

'It's silly, John.'

'Go on.'

'I did all that in three minutes, seventeen seconds. Yesterday.'

I stare silently. A wall full of official documents' copies, not to mention the old jumper... _and are those tea bags?_

'Why?'

'You always come by Baker Street on Thursdays. Not your favourite day of the week. The shorter work load makes you less patient. You know that and you joke saying they are Thundering Thursdays for you.'

'Yeah...' I realise. 'I've had another Thundering Thursday today, true to form.'

'Yesterday you didn't show up.'

'Yesterday was a Wednesday', I point out.

He nods. Then he goes for his violin, and leaves me to wonder if I'll ever hear the full explanation.

'Lestrade thinks he's funny', Sherlock spits out, not overly angry, more like hurt. Okay, what has DI Lestrade, Greg, done to hurt Sherlock's feelings now? I wait patiently, and take a seat on my armchair as Sherlock plucks a few strings to test their pitch. He adjusts their vibrancy almost at microscopic level, detecting those missed sharpness that I don't have the skill to tell apart anymore, too minute. 'You remember the case, Monday night?' he starts again.

'How could I not? It was an all-nighter.'

Sherlock nods. 'Somehow I left my phone behind.'

'You lend it to Greg for a call, maybe he just put it in his pocket, we were all so tired', I recall.

'He came by Tuesday morning and brought it over.'

I nod again, but I really can't see the link. Until... I chuckle lightly. 'Greg messed with your phone for fun. He altered the date. Monday was Tuesday, Tuesday was Wednesday, and Wednesday was Thursday, of couse! You being a genius, hardly mind those minute details, and yesterday you thought it was the day I'd come by – and it was a lame joke on you, by the way – but, this wall?' I point to the John H. Watson's museum display mockingly. 'You could have called, instead of going into full kidnapping investigation mode.'

Sherlock shrugs, looking down the violin arm with all his apparent attention. _It must have frightened him, my absence. He missed me, and I'm deeply thankful for his loyalty._ 'I called your phone, you didn't pick up.'

'I was probably with a patient.'

'Yes, you were. I called the clinic. They were the ones telling me the day of the week. Eventually', he hissed, hatefully. I smile in pity.

'Was that before or after the Watson Wall?'

'After.'

'So, you really thought I was gone for a few minutes... You know what, for this I need tea. I'll get the kettle on... Excuse me...' I go past my friend and retrieve one of those tea bags pinned on the repetitive black and white wallpaper. Just on top of another piece of private history. My CO's first commendation for a medal, on my first deployment. 'Sherlock...'

'Thorough, don't you think?' he asks, proudly.

'High up there with the best stalking, yes', I answer with no ill feeling. This is Sherlock all over. _The man that notices me late on a Thursday and worries over it_. Only... 'I'm not that _interesting_, Sherlock. Surely there are better ways to spend the time?'

He smirks warmly. 'Yes you are, John. Hm. Can't take it down yet.'

'Why not?'

'Not finished yet', he assures me as if obvious.

'You don't have much more space to pin things... Mrs H, by the way, will freak out when she sees this.'

He ignores that. 'I have information pockets that I need to fill, John.' Sherlock points specifically to a few gaps.

I shake my head. 'You must have exceeded in school at Show&amp;Tell.'

'I was homeschooled in my first years, John.'

'So, if I help you, Sherlock... will you explain to me why this whole Wednesday's Watson Wall business came about?' I'm already filling the kettle in the kitchen and I hear him mutter some non-commitment noise from the living room.

I sigh. I'm enabling my stalker, _shame on me_, but I get two tea mugs ready and take them back to Sherlock's side.

'Sherlock?' I call out, putting the two mugs down on the coffee table. I take one of the drawing pins there and look back at my friend questioningly. Will he take offense if I do this?

Sherlock takes one glance at my hesitant raised hand, tilts his head towards the Wall and directs softly: 'Just drop it, John.'

I nod shortly and stab the pin through the hole of a dirty gold door key. 'You forgot this, you know?' I tell him as I stretch over the sofa to pin 221B's key right at the centre of the Watson Wall. Right at the heart of it, I notice belatedly, and fell my face go red.

'So...' I ask, desperate for a change in the conversation, 'How are we going to get Greg back from the date gag?'

Sherlock is smiling brightly of his own accord.

_**.**_


	100. Chapter 100

_A/N: Short silly one. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'Sherlock?'

'Hm?'

'Have you been messing with my jumpers again?'

The genius detective of Baker Street raises a tired pair of eyes from the microscope, then frowns. 'No.'

I shake my head, feeling tired. 'Yes, you have.'

'No, I haven't. See? I'm looking at traces of _Saccharomyces cerevisiae_ yeast in different types of beers and ales. I don't require your jumpers for–'

I stop him short: 'Not all of them. My favourite one.'

He faces me again, sternly, with just a hint of amusement. 'You've got a _favourite_ jumper, John.'

'And you've got a favourite... violin!' I threaten, covertly.

'You wouldn't dare, John!' He's angry now. _Good._

'I'm going out, Sherlock. I'm going out for a jog. And my jumper better be returned, unharmed, while I'm gone, or else...'

Sherlock's eyes narrow, as he takes in my seriousness.

'What's up with the jogs?' he asks, instead.

'London's marathon', I tell him, straightening my back and squaring my shoulders. 'I want to take part in it.'

Sherlock stands immobile, curious, till he shrugs. 'One would think you'd have enough practice with all the criminals we chase about London.'

'Yeah...' I agree automatically, before I realise that No, relying on those solely is the easy way out. Not going to take on a marathon sleep deprived, adrenaline high and gun tugged away in my waistband. I intend to do this the right way. 'It's a marathon, Sherlock. I'm not as worried about finishing it in a good time as I am in finishing it at all. You, young people, don't really understand these things.'

He reminds me: 'Hardly a three years age gap between us, John.'

I'll have to double-check that maths of his, but instead I add, ominously: 'I know. Ain't that scary?' Sherlock chuckles and I smile. One last nod and I grab my gym gear off the floor again.

'And I want that jumper back!' I remind him as I hoist the darn heavy bag up. Oh, this is going to be a _lovely_ day at the gym, if the bag seems heavy enough as it is, I haven't even trained yet...

'_Just drop it, John_, I keep telling you that. I said it to you a hundred times already...' he won't let go, his voice trailing off from the living room.

'Not a hundred times, Sherlock! You are a Science Genius and a Grammar Sargent. Not a hundred times. It might sound like the hundredth time, it sure does to me, but it's not.'

'Yes, it is.'

'No, it's not!' I turn away again, stubborn. 'Hang on!' I stop short, tired. 'Are you possibly counting the times when I wasn't even in the room?'

He thinks about it. 'Yes', he says at last.

'Oh, okay then.'

'So, for the hundredth time plus one; _just drop it, John_!'

I giggle, Sherlock's impossible.

_**.**_

Over an hour later in back at the gym's changing rooms, getting my running shoes off, when I notice something at the bottom of my bag. Something wooly and comfortable. A soft smile comes unbidden to my lips as I feel my favourite jumper under my fingertips. I guess that settles that it wasn't Sherlock's fault at all! I should apologise - or just use my false accusation as an upfront payment for the next unethical science experiment he does on my things.

Strangely enough, I'd sworn my jumper wasn't there before, but that would mean Sherlock would have stalked me to the gym when he could just slip it back into my drawers and play cool...

Well, it's cold outside, and I could use a jumper, I guess...

_Hang in there!_

I briskly remove the rest of the jumper off the bag and stare at it. Slowly I let my head tilt sideways as I ponder the scientific conundrum. _How on earth did Sherlock turn my jumper lettuce green?_

Won't bother asking _why_, he doesn't excel in answering logically to that question. _"For science, John!"_

Is that a note attached by a safety pin to the trim? Wearily I glance over the note, scribbled in my friend's best writing.

_"Sorry, John. It seems wool fibres_

_are far more reactive than I assumed. SH_

_And good luck with your marathon training._

_You'll do great."_

I shake my head, disguising a soft smile.

Right on cue my mobile chirps in an incoming message.

"Found it yet? -SH"

Before I can think of answering, a new string of texts comes one after the next:

"Didn't realise it was your favourite. -SH"

"It was for science. -SH"

"Well, you guessed as much. -SH"

"Testing natural dyeing processes to solve a cold case for Lestrade. -SH"

"If it helps, my hypothesis was confirmed. Lestrade was thankful. -SH"

"I'm ordering a new one online. What is your size? -SH"

"Maybe Lestrade can pay half the cost? -SH"

"Guessed the size. Arrives tomorrow. Still angry? -SH"

"Did you see the first word on my note, John? -SH"

I sigh again, with a head shake.

Sherlock wrote the note when he turned my jumper green, before I told him of my plans. He's known them for a while. I thought he'd tell me it was a waste if time, remind me of my old limp or something else. It's nice to read him so supportive.

He still owes me a new jumper, though.

Lettuce green doesn't suit me while we're chasing bad guys.

_**.**_


	101. Chapter 101

_A/N: Sidenote to TheImprobableOne, and everyone - thanks, I really need to say that I realise that my sudden drop off grid may have come across wrongly. I wasn't holding this collection for ransom. Meaning that I wasn't holding out from posting for the off chance of being bribed with chocolate sprinkles. (The loveliest of bribes too.) I'm just a stubborn fool that decided that she would publish to get to 100 before the end of the month and of her holidays, and got herself worn out. (I regret nothing; this just might have kept me sane through an extraneous set of circumstances.) If anything, I should apologise for hogging the place like I did this past month._

_This is what I have to give. (There I go again, posting without being fully ready.) I'm working under the assumption that there's more to come. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part 1**_

Sherlock was right behind me, I could have sworn to it.

One moment we were chasing bad guys inside a water tower, the next there were gunshots fired at us. Something, in all probability a bullet, made me slip over the edge and slam against the horizontal barrier of water. It encircled me at once, numbing me with its cold, its waves freezing me, chocking me, all my muscles painfully contracting. I remember fighting to reach the surface.

I just don't remember reaching it.

_**.**_

It's been two weeks now. Slowly I've pieced together what happened. Sherlock called me from the reservoir's margin, waiting for my return to the surface with some timely joke at hand. When time elapsed with no sign of his friend and colleague, he cursed hard and took matters into his own hands. Sherlock shed his long coat and jumped into the same cold dark waters. Desperately, he reached me, realised my jumper had got caught in a rusty nail sticking out of the wall, inches away from the air I so desperately needed. Strong mindful fingers extracted me from my water sarcophagus, I had by then lost whatever air I had clung on to, and all consciousness. My body was preparing to die. Might have been peaceful in the end; numbed by cold, I can't remember. Sherlock unstuck me and swam with my unresponsive body to the surface. Dragging me back to the margin he attempted to awake me, to make me expel the water lodged in my lungs. I don't think he fully realised that he was resuscitating me.

When the paramedics arrived I was threading a fine line between dead and alive. Sherlock was there to pull me back into this world. He's the reason I'm here now.

I've left the hospital today, planning to take Sherlock's offer of a safe ground and his company while in recovery. I assumed we'd go back to Baker Street.

Instead, he's been giving me less than innocent jabs about doctors who are helpless at healing themselves. I keep telling him I'm only human. He hums, annoyed, as if he's had too much proof on the veracity of my statement; not amused.

Same old Sherlock. He's intent on taking me on a healing trip, somewhere a child has grown fond of.

_**.**_

I must have fallen asleep in the car. From what I reconstruct, Sherlock must have quietly taken the wheel for over two hours. I came to with a light start, as we cross country roads. The sun is coming out from behind clouds, the windows are cracked open, creating a draft that undulates and revolves my friend's moppy hair.

'... So you see, John, the wife accidently shot her son-in-law.'

I blink. Was Sherlock talking to me? Before I can warn him, in all honesty, that I wasn't listening, he senses my movement and flickers a smile towards me. 'Oh, you're awake, John.'

I frown, confused. 'Wait a minute, if you knew I was asleep, why were you talking to me?' I ask him, in a pasty voice.

He freezes all his expression for a second, before retorting logically: 'Who else was I going to talk to? There's only us two in the car, John.'

I open my mouth to protest, but give up in the end. Sherlock speaking to me while I'm not even _there_ is not even a first, I shouldn't be surprised.

'So...' I start slowly, then tease: 'are we there yet?'

'John, you have an assorted variety of tools at your disposal that permit you to answer that question yourself. There's a map near you, mileage marks on the road, direction signs with the remaining distance engraved, there's GPS on your phone, on my phone and on the car, even the remaining gas in the tank allied with the fact that we haven't stopped at the last petrol station a minute ago should be enough to calculate an answer of average but sufficient precision.'

I frown. _Or you could just tell me. What is wrong with you, Sherlock?_

'Never mind', I end up saying, closing my eyes again. I feel tired, drained, as if keeping my head up and being alert was enough to suck all my energy away. As a doctor I recognise I need to take it slowly, and allow some time for recovery. I just can't take it, this inaction, this prison I've subjected myself to. I've come to resent the frailness of my body, and how it's letting me down. As I'm understandingly frustrated, Sherlock has kept himself by my side every step of the way — but he's impatient, he's testing me for sharpness every hour of the day. I'm probably failing his every test.

'John...' I hear Sherlock whispering, 'if you're listening, we'll be there in twenty minutes. Rough estimate, of course, but you wouldn't be amused if I said nineteen minutes and a half. You'd tell me it doesn't matter. Only, it does. You need a proper rest and this car ride hasn't been agreeing with you. The tension in your jaw line tells me that you are starting to feel queasy again. I... I'm glad you're here, John.'

From some distant corner of the universe — or to all reason just the left-hand side of the car — I register his words and the emotion withheld. There's an emotion echo stabbing me from somewhere deep inside, but some strange disconnection between body and mind delays an external reaction. I hear him sigh, not even a couple of seconds later.

Was this another test, did he actually mean it? Why am I not angry, sad, hopeful? Anything?

_I'm not okay, Sherlock. The world is strange to me at the moment._

_**.**_


	102. Chapter 102

_A/N: A sweet thank you note goes out to __Honourable__, for kind words that won't be easily forgotten, and also to all those people who (I still have trouble believing) read this – and some even commented. That you'll risk a nasty headache from all my English language mistakes (and others, possibly) is the kindest gesture. You all make me frightened to death to write and post, because there's actually someone reading. Thank you for that. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part 2 .**_

Loud rushing sounds of water all around my weakened body, I'm left powerless to fight them. Cold shivers running up my numb body towards my panicking mind, an impending doom of absolute emptiness and hollowness. Fear is the only connection I have to reality, and I foolishly try to fight for my life, embracing that fear. I try to move my arms, my legs. They are unresponsive, heavy useless limbs, soaking up the water, heavily dragging me to the bottom. Water covers my lips and my nose, muddles my sight – _I recall it such as it was then_ – and I panic, trashing about, looking for purchase, support, rescue, anything. I feel nothing within grasp – _I'm truly alone_ – I'm centre stage on a drowning act of my own. Can't breathe, I'm struggling to keep the water out. My last gasp is lost to a cluster of air bubbles. And it's cold, so cold now. I crumple myself to protect me from the screaming pain I know is coming. I've figured this out before. I know I'm only dreaming. _Reliving the trauma._ And that it only ends when I give up and allow my deep fall into those dark cold waters of my subconscious yet again. But I always fight it, like some masochist survivor. It's actually for Sherlock, I know he is frightened. _I cling to that memory as well._ In my mind he always fears that if I don't fight I may slip back into a coma. So I always fight, for me and for my friend, delaying the painful end of the dream.

_I just never win._

I wake up bolting forward, and I'm rewarded with a violent revoil in my chest that vacates the air I was hoarding. I fall back onto the car seat, shivering, puzzled, utterly confused. Seconds go by before I take notice that I'm inside a car. The seatbelt cut off my air for the second time as I jerked forward into awoken, I was already desperately sucking lungs full of air, rapidly heading towards hyperventilation.

Finally I notice in the background there's the softest of voices calling my given name with concern. I look over to my side. Sherlock is there. _He's always there._ And we're in a car halted by the curb so that the driver can place all his focus on me. I've already adopted the usual breathing exercises, like a second nature. _Count the seconds in, count the seconds out._

'Better?' he asks me. I nod.

He won't pressure me just yet. Instead he finds a worthy distraction around us.

'Do you know where we are?'

I nod gently, wrapping my head around the nightmare that snapped me awake. This is only the first one outside the hospital, but Sherlock and I got familiarised with them while there. 'Yeah, I've been around here before. I know this area', I tell him at last, about the landscape around us.

He frowns, reproaching me. 'That is an understatement, John. Your family lived in this area for a few years.'

I nod again, it's true. Trust my friend the consulting detective to be the most accurate biographer of one old boring John H. Watson. I look around the familiar area with its marked rural character and wonder why, of all the shifting around the country the Watsons did, Sherlock chose this stop. I must have been – what? Five years old?

Sherlock Holmes is still eyeing me carefully, as if attentively listening in to my thoughts. He cuts in just at the right time to provide them with an answer:

'You once told me you were five years old when you decided to become a doctor. And eleven when you chose to be a soldier.' He smirks, and if I didn't know differently, I'd sweat there's a sweetness to his expression and a touch of softness in his grey-green eyes. 'Always a doctor first, just like you present yourself in your blog. "Doctor John H. Watson", those are the big letters. "Army" and "Afghanistan" show up in much smaller font... A font size is always telling', he insists in another one of his axioms, just like "dust is eloquent" and "everybody's an idiot". 'Well, _doctor_ Watson, I've brought you here, to where your first realisation of who you are came about.' He's smiling in a smug, bragging way, but some twinkle in his eyes tells me he's expecting me to smile back with him. It's not the successful glee of the early cases we solved together, as he looked on back at me across the crime scene with an endearing almost hopeful approval -seeking smile. This is a full blown complicity smile.

Again, something inside me is stirred by that smile, and I'm left staring at my intense friend like a dear in headlights. But, for the life of me, I can't figure out what to do or say to reply to such intensity.

Slowly, without a single touch of the awkwardness that invades me, Sherlock's smile becomes calmer, deeper, pondered. Steady and reliable. 'I don't want to pressure you, John', he tells me in a rare moment of complete frankness. 'However, I'm intent on bringing you, all of you, back. It has become my mission from the moment you got a second chance. Soaking wet, fast heading for hypothermia, oxygen-deprived for an alarming time, I will not let go of the memory of a lung full gasp and your eyes, glazed and unfocused, snapping open towards me. Up till that moment I had felt relief, I believed that I had succeeded in pulling you back to life. Then it hit me, my job was hardly done yet. John... I will finish my job. I will bring you back to life... I will, however, concede in giving you the time you need. It has been explained to me that I mustn't rush you. And I mustn't shock you. And I mustn't take you out of your comfort zone too soon.'

_Nice to know_, some sarcastic portion of my mind echoes in the background. It's just a glimpse of a mock control I felt and immediately it evaporates again.

Sherlock is still pondering me. I nod, to whatever he meant, whatever pledge he just made of not abandoning me, and following his own rules for my recovery at the same time.

_I can't do it on my own, not now at least. I'm trusting you, Sherlock. It's only logical. You've always been the brainy one. You are the one with a clear head right now; as for me, my mind is still waterlogged._

_**.**_

'Your family's house doesn't exist anymore', Sherlock comments, as if he's been gravely inconvenienced by it.

We just got to this not too shabby Bed &amp; Breakfast, where Sherlock promptly got us a place to rest. It's a shared room, with two single beds, not distant from each other.

Having stopped short by the bed closest to the window where my travel bag sits on the duvet, I'm lost in thought on how Sherlock and I have got ourselves used to this proximity, since my hospital stay. It's almost an engrained aching need now, to have my rational, logical friend close by as I face my days again. At least for now, I've been using his strength, and Sherlock's standards of normalcy (dangerous as that may turn out to be), to guide me through. It's a heavy burdened job, but Sherlock silently stepped up to it, and faithfully he's been guiding me along the days, waiting for my timely return to former grace. One he's sure of. And he's the genius, so I'm vowing to believe him. I'm just hoping he doesn't get bored too fast. He has no cases out here. All he can do is focus his attention on me. What was he thinking, when he settled for this road trip into my past?

'John...' he calls me out, softly as is his new habit.

'Hm?' I look up.

'You were looking at me quietly, then you finally furrowed your brow. I can't tell what it means. Are you okay? Is this place okay? Did I do something wrong?'

I can't stand the vulnerability in my friend's voice, it's all wrong. Sherlock Holmes is a cold heartless bastard that solves crimes before the Scotland Yard can, then flaunts the answer to an audience of police investigators. Who is this alias that inquires me with the same softness he shows to his precious violin when tunning its strings?

'I'm okay, Sherlock. Just... Just be yourself, will you?' I gesture vaguely in his direction, then turn around to face the window.

'You are pale and quiet. I suspect you may be hypoglycaemic now, John. It's been a while since you last ate. We could go see what they serve as food around here.'

Turned with my back to him, I blink, such as I could have shrugged. Not hungry, no. I'd much rather be here, by the window, receiving the scattered rays of sunshine filtering in through the pane glass. So much warmer than the cold numbing water.

Sherlock must have sensed my peace of mind, because he gives me unpressured time. He keeps himself busy unpacking his stuff. Then he comes to my bag, and starts unpacking it too.

_Boundaries, Sherlock_, a lost part of my mind supplies. But I'm not really bothered. He places my toothbrush in the conjoined little bathroom, and my small notebook and pen by the left-hand side of the bedside table. He also pours some water into a glass and leaves it there for my convenience. From his pocket he takes out the last medically prescribed pills for my recovery. Just another hateful proof that he has taken control of every aspect of my life now. I don't hate Sherlock for it, I think it's a kind gesture. I hate this ineptitude of mine, I hate this numbness, I hate... With a deep sigh I let go of all my worked up state, allowing my mind to drown back in this oblivious good-for-nothing state I've been clinging on to. Part of it comes from the last remnants of medication from the hospital, and soon they'll be washed off my system. Part of it may just be my temporary security blanket while my world is still lopsided.

'John, _food_.' Sherlock comes to stand in front of me to insist, sternly. I sigh, and a shiver runs down my body. I wish he hadn't just severed the sunlight's warmth reaching me, plunging me back into the cold water swirling in my memories. My shoulders sag, shrinking, with the loss. Sherlock struggles to interpret my physical response, all too attentive to my clues. 'Told you, low blood sugar level, John. I'll get you your favourite jumper and we'll go get some food into you, okay?' His grey-green eyes don't abandon me, demanding an answer before he moves. I nod at last, even if I can't fully recall the question anymore. I sense that's what he wants – for me to nod – and sure enough there's a small quirk of the lips, not much more than the mockery of a smile, to compensate me. 'John. Medicine, now. How many pills are they?'

I frown in order to focus. 'Two, before a meal.' It's another test. However disconnected from reality it may be, medicine is an alternative plane with it's own set of rules, causes and effects, and I haven't forgotten how to be a doctor. Even to myself.

_Not quite in the way I've forgotten how to be _John_._

'Yes, that's it.' A touch of relief softens Sherlock's features. I passed his test, filling him with fresh hope.

I go for the two pills with a lump-like feeling on my stomach. This is not the Sherlock I know. How did I frighten him to this state? It's all wrong. It's an abuse on my friend. I'm a bad influence. He shouldn't be forced to be here with me.

My hands are already shaking, and I need to calm myself down. He's Sherlock Holmes. No one can force him to do what he doesn't want to do. Not even Moriarty could. That must mean some part of him wants to be here. For now, at least.

_I must be indeed that lucky._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	103. Chapter 103

_(very long A/N) Context: After a near drowning accident and a period in hospital, John is having trouble swinging back into the rhythm of life. He feels numb and detached. Sherlock has been by his side ever since, a silent support in a world that refuses to slow its pace down for John. They have left London, to an unnamed location where John has lived for a short time when he was five years old. Or, as Sherlock would put it, where John has first realised he wanted to become a doctor – as if Sherlock is searching for John's faded essence. And who is John? Well, a genius like Sherlock Holmes might have some trouble summarising in short precise bullet points (he may have tried doing a John H. Watson power point presentation once – just once, Mrs Hudson would know, and vouch for it - but it had over a hundred slides, so he didn't use it at John's wedding, after all – Mrs H told him it was time to go play lovely music with the violin, he had wasted far too much time chasing murderers of guests who hadn't been murdered yet – and Sherlock concurred). So, he's taking to heart the expert's definition of John, by using John's own words in his blog: "I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan". Sherlock quickly ruled out the notion of taking John to Afghanistan, so..._

_Ps. Before the actual story, apologies for the delay. A lot has been going on. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part 3 .**_

The eating area of our Bed and Breakfast is a calm room with dark textured wallpapers, a few tables and some mismatched chairs. Reminds me of an old style pub. In the stale atmosphere, I'm immediately drawn to a table by the window, through which the sun glows the brightest.

In London, Sherlock tends to stick to the mysterious shadows and corners from where he can study everyone with a sweeping glance. If this once he disagreed with me taking control and choosing outside his tendencies, he won't let it show. Compliantly he accepts to sit with his back to almost the whole room, as I take the seat bathed by sunlight. We keep in silence in my chosen location, in what is possibly my first asserted choice since my hospitalisation period. And if Sherlock is smart he must be overanalysing this choice, but I could explain it myself. Not yet.

We may sit more quietly than we normally would, but our silence is comfortable. Sherlock is openly studying the horticultural variety of the small garden outside the window, swarming with bees, then follows the sun beams to where I'm sat, relishing the warm touch on my hands and face's exposed skin, permeating through the fabric of my jumper.

There are a few people around, hardly minding us. If anything, I must be the short skinny blond guy by the window with eyes drifting closed like a cat on a warm tile roof. Sherlock would then be the carefully watchful figure, shamelessly studying me.

At a given point the casual observer would look away, if he saw the seemingly intimate way Sherlock wrapped his fingers around my wrist, the one I kept relaxed on the table. I could feel his fingertips analysing pulse. He withdrew in the same softness, apparently satisfied. When the waiter came, Sherlock ordered for the both of us. He knew I'd put up a fight – some simile of a fight at least – if he didn't order for himself, and so he does, maybe even just to keep me in this calm plenitude for a while longer.

I watch the waiter walk away without paying much attention, when I take closer notice of my friend's careful glances at the table setting. Sherlock is still doing his thing, studying the room's reflection on the chromed tea pot at the table. As if protecting me, now I'm most vulnerable.

This is my first effort to return to the present moment and my friend wants me to work at it for as long as possible.

'You implied there was a case, Sherlock', I volunteer, noting how unfair it is to hog my friend's attention. I'm uninteresting, boring, and trapping Sherlock away from London and its bustling atmosphere. _He must be half-mad by now._

'Sort of', he generalises. 'After you have your food, I thought we could go for a walk in this area.'

I frown. This village must have become more interesting after I've lived here with my family as a small kid. Apart from the old man next door being ill and his nurse spelling complicated diseases when speaking with my mum if I was around (because like that _surely_ I wouldn't understand the man was terminally ill), or the small beck by the end of the road where I would go to catch tadpoles to frighten Harry, everyday life was basically the same you get in every small village in the country.

'Was there a murder? Extortion and burglaries would be more common to these villages, I guess.'

'You'd be surprised, John. And no, none of that.'

'But something has got your attention.'

'Most definitely.'

'You won't tell me.'

'Not yet.'

I lean back, closing my eyes tiredly. 'You will tell me if you get yourself in danger, won't you?'

This time, I hear no reply. I raise a tired eyelid to study my friend. He's got a calm smugness to him. As if he just won a difficult argument, or found evidence that support a good theory on a case. 'Of course', he tells me at last. 'I mean to keep around my blogger.'

_**.**_

We go for Sherlock's stroll, but keeping it light. I've only recently left the hospital and I don't want to drain me within the first 24 hours. The weather is fair, and I'm contented to follow Sherlock through winding dirt trails roadside, so long as the sun is strong enough to keep me warm.

Funnily enough, Sherlock is more and more tranquil in this rural area. I would have never imagined London's most famous detective in this setting, and if I had, I wouldn't have thought of him as tranquil. It's almost with a shock that I come to notice that every little natural phenomenon he can see and study as we go along this nature trail keeps his mind engaged and fully focused. He's been telling me curious facts about species of plants in the occurring vegetation, showing off his incredible knowledge on bees and insect pollination and how artificially produced chemicals in pesticides are being blamed for an alarming drop of numbers in the bees populations. Hearing him, one would think he'd be ready to dedicate the rest of his life to protecting the bees in a heartbeat, should he ever get tired of solving criminal cases.

Finally, Sherlock's mood shifts again, and so does mine. Innocently or not _(probably not)_, Sherlock has led me to the rundown ruins of what was once my childhood home. Not for long. One year, almost two. Then the Watsons moved again back to London. My mum was already ill and not getting better with the "healthy air" and my father... well, my father didn't care for the bees or any other of the local attractions.

Sherlock slowed down and so did I. We came to rest ourselves against the fence, looking in.

There's nothing there that I recognise, and this realisation that a connection with what was once a home is now forever lost in the physical world hits me with some unexpected sadness. Maybe Sherlock sensed it, for he glances at me, and then back at the terrain ahead of us with pretend close attention.

'Your mother chose wisely' he tells me, half-smugly. _What in the world?_ I turn to face him, more curious than I've been till now.

Noticing my captured interest, he smiles, a deep relieved, happy for me, smile that suits my serious friend so well. He nods, mostly to himself, as if to confirm that throughout this ordeal he hasn't lost his ability to astonish me with his deductions.

'The oak tree your mother planted at the beginning of the garden in your honour, next to a cherry tree for your sister. She just have been the dreamer type, Mrs Watson, but still quite the tough cookie. I mean, she planted the trees in the best place for them to grow, where the soil was richer, deeper, and there would be more space for their branches to develop. Your father, however, had his eyes set on a study at the back of the house, just in the wrong spot, for the trees would block the view of the study window. I can imagine the row between your stern father, used to being obeyed in his managerial desk job, and your mother's romanticised idea that those plants represented their offspring and should, therefore, be treated as precious.'

All the while Sherlock has been deducing the past he can see so clearly, I have kept myself quiet. Finally I face the ruins again.

'Trust me, you can't really imagine the rows', I assure my friend between gritted teeth, facing away. I don't want to bring it to memory, and I sure don't want to talk about it, so I sulk in silence. _Don't even know why I'm sulking anymore. _Sherlock has helped bringing to light lost memories of my parents and my sister, that assault me in a rollercoaster of emotions I try to keep hidden from sight. Most of all, I try to push them back into the numbness. Perhaps I don't want to do _this_ right now.

'John... Did I bring up a bad memory?' Sherlock asks me, as if calculating the extent of his actions.

I shrug. _So much time has elapsed, it hardly matters._

Or maybe Sherlock thinks I'm numb right now. It's not a new coping mechanism for a Watson. _We're lifelong pros in this survival mechanism._

I almost wish Sherlock would have taken me somewhere else.

_**.**_

We returned to the Bed and Breakfast with little more talk about my childhood home. The stroll, however, has both brightened and exhausted me today. I drag around at reception in order to ask for a local newspaper – Sherlock needs to find himself a case, maybe I can find him one in print – and let my friend get to our shared room first.

I return to the room just in time to hear the bathroom's door click shut. He just called first dibs on the shower. As a former flatmate, I know how this will play out. _This is Sherlock, this will take a while._

The tea cup in my hand is nice and warm against my fingertips as I hold the porcelain. The beverage itself is hardly classifiable as "tea", though. Tea bags have been left in the pot for too long, making it harsh to the palate and bitter beyond _Earl Grey_'s recognition. I sigh.

Well, it must be a good thing, that I'm getting bothered by tea. It's not within my usual apathy. That must be part of my comeback, right? Sherlock should be happy. Sherlock makes himself preposterous cups of tea when I'm not there.

_Slowly I've come to appreciate Sherlock's bitter tea_, full of tannins and rich in depth.

No matter what _Earl Grey_ would say.

I still make better tea than Sherlock.

I would tell this to Sherlock, but he is busy, shaving or just plain grooming. Actually, going by the sound of steady running water I should venture he's going to shower. The communicating door is too thin, as I can hear the water pouring down hard on the shower cabin walls.

Something is not quite right out here, though. A strange nausea spreads from deep inside me, making me shiver. _What is wrong with me?_ I hold on tight to my cup of tea, to that feeling of warmth and homeliness, as I take a strained seat at the edge of my bed. The warmth is suddenly gone and I'm left paralysed in the freezing cold.

_I may be reliving a nightmare while awake._

I shouldn't have, but I closed my eyes. The sounds of rushing swirling water gets so much louder in my ears. I can taste it, as it fills my mouth. When I try to call out, it comes flooding in, flooding me. I realise for a mere glimpse in time that this can't be real, this is not happening again, but my rational brain is being drowned by the cold harsh input of the memories pouring down.

A shiver runs down my spine, leaving cold water depths on its wake. I'm catapulted back to the water tower in the blink of an eye, powerlessly fighting the merciless dark swirling waters.

A lost groan comes unbidden out of me and it accompanies the last moment of cold reasoning I grasp as I understand clearly that I was triggered into a flashback.

Can't breathe, I'm choking, the world is dissolving in a haze of painful colours and inputs, under a heavy cloak of doom – this is it, no more second chances. This time Sherlock is to far away to help, he won't even know he's losing his blogger.

From far off I hear porcelain smashing, and I'm falling and smashing too, bursting out of my seams with pain like a ragged doll.

Something strong, warm, envelops my trashing body in a tight grip. _This is all wrong, the painful grasp should be cold, so cold, instead of this steady warmth. _My deafened hearing picks up on some foreign soothing sounds, there's also the tanginess of the tea aroma in the air. _Must be dying and my mind is playing tricks on me._ Because I'm dying, of that I'm sure. Half-dizzy from lack of oxygen, what is holding me back is that I don't want to let go, to quit, I never will. I put up a fight because even in this state I won't let go of who I am, and that's what I am: a fighter.

'Shh, John, it's alright. You are hyperventilating now. You need to calm down before you pass out. Shh...' It's my friend's voice, guiding me along. Whether it's an hallucination of a dying mind or, against all odds, there is a rescuer from my torturous dream-like state, I'll trust my friend – I always will – and try to slow down my breathing as indicated. He's already counting out loud the seconds in, counting the seconds out, as I'm now focusing on my breathing. But the swirling water refuses to recede.

What breathing? I'm wheezing now, the world has spun out of focus and there are bright spots forming ahead of me.

'No, no, no... You are doing fine, John. Just keep going. We are going to ride this out together. Keep breathing slowly. I know it feels like it's not enough air, but it's only your mind playing tricks on you, juxtaposing inputs of excess information with–... John! It's okay. I'll explain later, just focus on my voice, now. Can you hear me?' I nod. His voice is coming back, stronger and louder. 'You nearly passed out there, John. Well, actually you did, but only for two seconds. That won't do. But it kicked off your autonomic nervous system, and your breathing is steadier now. Don't go back. You are John, you are brave and strong.'

I shake my head. _Trust me, it don't feel that way._ He shushes me, like he did at the start, like one would to a frightened child.

'So...' I start, awkwardly, in a croaky voice, looking round in the room from my friend's panicked close embrace. 'I'm scared of the water, now?'

He chuckles softly, but enough to make me want to take offense. And I would, if I wasn't so bloody tired and this wasn't Sherlock. Not with Sherlock. _Sherlock stays through thick and thin, against all odds._

'Hardly a new habit, John. Your brain is still organising the overwhelming sensorial inputs from your near drowning. It didn't have the chance before, as your survival instincts kicked in. Every time you relive it, the synapses are organising and storing it away.'

I think he's lying, but it sounds convincing and comforting, and I'll take his lies for the time being.

Suddenly it strikes me that we are both siting on the floor, partly on top of my former tea cup porcelain shards. He's sat by my side, with an arm around me, steadying me. The ascetic detective that abhors unplanned physical contact has all but hugged me. This could be seriously awkward, but we both gave up on a lot of awkwardness since the hospital. It's like a temporary and unspoken consensus awkwardness ban.

'Thanks, Sherlock.'

'Shh...'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	104. Chapter 104

_A/N: Just one more, after this. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part 4 .**_

Sherlock was there when I woke up. I was dazed from the medication, clueless on how many days I had been under the spell of oblivion. Centrefold in my own world, so narrow and small as it was, there was this nagging feeling of prolonged dull pain nestled in every limb, pulling me back to sleep. 'John', I heard and I reopened my eyes. I had hardly noticed I had them closed again, meantime. Time was still a very flexible entity those days. It stretched beyond the confines of my consciousness. 'You are hiding, John, and it's hardly fair', my friend tells me openly and I strain my neck to face him, sat by the bedside.

He's smiling – maybe he just said a joke – but all I see in his expression is happiness. _Can't_ _tell why._ If it's relief, or wonder, or complicity. All emotions were detached from me at the moment. I supposed it to be temporary. I came to understand I'd need to regain touch with most of those emotions, slowly, in the coming days.

My friend had dark circles under his eyes, striking over the pasty, borderline unhealthy, tinge of his pale skin. Dark messy curls lay in artistic disarray, as if he hardly bothered about his looks. I wondered what could have been so important to him, but that thought, as so many others, did not adhere to any particular care in the world, and again I let it slip off my fingers.

The hospital room hardly bothered me either. I'm a doctor, after all. That much I remembered, even if I wouldn't be able to eloquently explain what it entailed. That I'd be in a hospital room, so familiar in its smell, noises, machines, comings and goings, and in a bed as the primary source of curiosity as people entered the room, was just an extension of my usual setting. I wouldn't even find it odd, to be the one in the bed. The one that everyone paid particular attention to. I had this vague notion that it wasn't the first time, you see. Somehow, somewhere in the time scale, I belonged there, in the patient role. So I had no real qualms about belonging at Sherlock's side.

I remained silent for much of the first days, a coincidence that was so easily overlooked given that I had an oxygen mask constantly over my face. I had technically drowned, after all, and stopped breathing for a short period of time, not to mention the water that had come into my lungs causing some temporary swelling and damage to the alveoli. The doctors didn't put particular emphasis in my silence, and Sherlock himself was over the moon with my brief consciousness episodes and failed to hear my silence.

_I could be screaming inside__ me__, that all anyone heard outside was silence._

And so, slowly, I drowned further in the depths of me. I quieted my own desperation, too much for any sane individual to handle at once. _I became as silent inside as I was outside._

Sherlock didn't miss _that_. Somehow, in our deeply shared friendship, he had learnt to listen to my thoughts, to share them, to share their load. He now sensed the void inside me, and refused to accept it. He wouldn't get sidetracked with my external hoarse voice, that slowly recuperated its capacities day by day. Sherlock was eager to hear my inner dialogues, thoughts, doubts, fears, wishes. He missed picking them off my expression, and the blankness left behind was to him, most uncharacteristic, and the most _John_-less he had ever seen of me.

_I think I frightened him._

He never left my side after that. And if a nurse was being less than gentle when drawing blood for analysis, he would voice it for me, even before I took notice of the discomfort. If the food was late, he would enquire about it, I hardly noticed I was hungry. When people came to visit, Sherlock would put himself between me and them. He would drive them away (more gently to Mrs H than to Mike Stanford, for instance, but always barring them from reaching me), yet I never admitted that I was feeling out of my depths. He sensed it all for me. He made sense of the world and took the right call every time. Allowing me time to get it all together on my own.

And slowly, things came to place, in a slow steady progress.

Sherlock saved my life many times. My friend's hand was as essential in the spectacular choices and actions of a hero as it was in the quiet contemplations of a trusted friend.

_**.**_

In an echo of that first time at the hospital after my drowning, I wake up the morning after my flashback feeling numb and silent. I slowly roll out of bed under Sherlock's insistence about what a fine day it is outside. _Since when does he care about the weather anyway?_ He opened the curtains to let the sunshine in, with its gentle warmth. Leaving me wondering if he deduced how attached I've grown of that quiet understated temperature and light, two qualities that I wish to further explore as a proof that I'm indeed alive, and past the cold deep waters.

He keeps pacing the room and talking to me, in small quiet remarks that demand no answer. Slowly allowing me to refocus on the present time. It's like he has sensed my silence in all its extent, and has become more talkative, and more sensible, assuming some of my usual responsibilities in our friendship.

'I'm okay, Sherlock', I tell him, wondering if it actually qualifies as a lie, given that I have little notion of how I am doing or feeling at the moment.

He huffs, clearly not impressed.

'You've been out today already', I finally notice the local paper folded and thrust into his pocket.

'You are becoming quite the detective, John', he tells me. _I can recognise arrogant ingrained sarcasm when I hear it, Sherlock._

_Wait, can I?_

Something of my old self is pushing through the numbness. 'Have you found yourself a case, Sherlock?'

He swallows dry, in an immediate tell. Normally Sherlock is quite the actor, lying and deceiving as needed. Weirdly enough, he can fool me about the big things – like Reinchenbach – but falls apart much easier, like a kid caught plotting mischief, about the small things. He's fairly sincere and straightforward in the small things. _Honesty in the details. Sometimes it's a hint of a smile, a quirk of the brow, a quiver in the strength of a violin string._

_I can read his little tells just as well as he used to read mine._

'I found five cases, John, that the local police have failed to follow through.'

_Sure you did, you're Sherlock Holmes._ 'I believe you, but that's not what I mean. Surpassing the local police wouldn't quite put that glow in your eyes, Sherlock. I can tell', I insist, as I shrug myself into a clean shirt.

He nods, slowly, in acceptance. Once, he would have put up a fight, just to keep his unattainable façade protected. Never since my debacle at the water tower. Something has changed. No longer do we insist on surplus manners. There's a new level of raw honest and direct interactions between us. 'You are right, John. I meant to devote all my energy to your recovery, yet I failed. Somehow I got sidetracked. There is a case, only a small thing, really.' He's jittery now, pacing and bracing around the room like a caged hamster looking for a way out. It's not that he's showing his true colours now he admitted to a case. He's conflicted, believing that he needs to chose his main focus between me and this mysterious case.

'I'm happy.' _Honestly._ He deserved a case, and so much more.

'What?' he seems surprised. He shouldn't be. I smile. I'm glad he can still be _him_, no matter the burden I placed on a great detective out on hold.

My smile generates an instinctive reaction in my friend. _He looks... relieved._ Finally the appropriate synapses in my brain fire away, painting a clear portrait of my tormented friend. _He blamed himself?_ But why? He must have known he saved my life, and I'd never blame him for not getting me out of the water sooner. If it wasn't for his attention, his protection, I would have met my end in those cold swirling waters of the water tower.

Could his guilt stem from something deeper? Is he blaming himself for taking me with him to action, and ultimately exposing me to danger? _I have accepted that risk from the start, Sherlock._ And he should know that I never turned away, no matter the cost. _"I said Dangerous, and here you are."_

'Sherlock... This wasn't your fault, you must know that.'

'I am aware', he tells me, in the least convincing tone I have ever heard out of him. Before I can produce any comment, he cuts me off: 'Want to join my investigation?'

Does he trust me, in this disconcerted state of mine?

I nod, in a truthful answer. I do want to join him, I just don't know if I should. Does he believe that I can do it?

'I think it's about time', he answers all my reasonable doubts. Again, as so often before, I chose to follow his lead.

_**.**_

'Wait, are we going to my childhood home again?' I ask, with a light frown.

My question hangs unanswered in the quietness between us. Sherlock looks absent, lost in his pondered reasoning about the case. We stroll in the fair weather through the familiar rural landscape.

It's like old days, with Sherlock keeping his secrets and me trailing behind him faithfully.

Only today, despite all his apparent abstractions, I _know_ he's protecting me with just the same fierceness I'd hold for him.

'John', he finally starts, after a light gasp as if all reality had suddenly converged on him, marking the need to make me aware of his plan. So he goes off in one of his high speed deductive monologues. 'Your family home is ruined. It has had a number of subsequent proprietors, but degradation was inevitable until its last owner, an elderly old man (patently clear in the alterations done to the porch in order to make the building more accessible) who has left legal battles as to his heirs, a son in the city and a daughter with gambling issues that is a stay at home mum. In the meantime, the house has been left abandoned and was used by the local youth as a hang out place (there are faded marking of graffiti vaguely discernible on the inside walls, if you look carefully). Afterwards, it was used as a local counterfeit goods temporary storage facility (you can tell the wear and tear of the paved path leading to the back of the house, not present at the front, indicating heavy traffic). John, your childhood house is anything but that now. I'm afraid it's become rather an interesting puzzle for me to solve from the moment I first laid eyes on it.'

'But...' I shake my head, bewildered, 'you told me about the oak and the cherry tree. You helped me remember my parents.'

'I chose the deductions most appropriate for you at the time, to help you visualise what was once there. Yes, there were others, John. There are always abundant deductions for me to choose from. There are always multitudes of deductions, John. Some matter, and some are dispensable.'

'You didn't dispense this one. If this is only the pit spot for local gangsters, why come here now?'

He smirks, as if recognising the sort of questions I'd not leave unanswered makes him more at ease. _It's the old John he was so used to._

'I feel compelled to act upon the destruction of what was once your childhood home, John.'

'And?' I won't let him throw sand upon my eyes.

He bites his lower lip, uncomfortable. _He must really have grown accustomed to getting a lot by me unnoticed, I realise._ 'There's a big counterfeiting shipment arriving tonight.' He grabs the local paper from his pocket and extends it to me.

I take it with confusion, unfolding it, and glancing through it. 'What am I looking for, Sherlock?'

'The personal adds, John. The lonely heart ads are always telling. These ones in particular have been hiding a lie in black print over white paper, over the last days. Thanks for bringing up the paper yesterday, by the way. Had you not done that inconsequential act, I wouldn't have found the messages from the gang. Shouldn't have been surprised, you have always conducted light, it's what you do.' With that vague compliment, Sherlock turns around again, hyperactive.

_Wait!_ I stop him short, grabbing his arm. 'You read the lonely heart ads?' He nods, most innocently.

'They are a good study of human nature, John. I've grown accustomed to studying them after— Well, you weren't there anymore, and human nature and interaction often passed me by, so... It was the only logical precise procedure at hand to sort and categorise emotions such as romance, and lust, and yearning, or—'

I wave him off. 'Sherlock, don't. Stop it, please. You have a great heart, that you understand and use it better than most. So, stop saying that.'

He frowns, confused and immobile. _Just like a crashed hard drive, trying to integrate faulty information. Like when I asked him to be my best man. _'Most people wouldn't have stayed by my side, Sherlock', I point out logically, hoping facts coldly stated can help me prove my theory to my scientific, rational friend. _Thank you._

'Most people are idiots!' he pronounces and twirls away. _System rebooted successfully._

Maybe I should be angry, but it just makes me smile.

Sherlock is already walking towards the house. _He better know what he's doing._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	105. Chapter 105

_A/N: __Thanks for sticking around. Last part of this sequence is here. I have a few more posts to "drop" in here the next few days, if all goes according to plan. Also thanks to Fang's Fawn for her kind words, whose insightful works have touched me from the very beginning__. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part five / Last part **__**.**_

Sherlock chose to bring me where my story as a doctor has begun. Yet, it's the soldier he's eliciting out of me today, as we approach danger unannounced.

I'm feeling alive, more alight than in the previous weeks. Blood pumping, adrenaline heightening my senses.

For the first time in a long time I feel I'm where I belong. And it's not a place, it's a feel. I belong to this danger, this life on the edge, these decisions that can change all universe as I know it and that are calls made on the spot. My association with Sherlock gave me this, made my life make sense again. _True to his brilliancy, he may have pulled it off again._

'Stay close, John', he tells me in a tense whisper, as we move in to the house. 'You are not physically recuperated yet.' No sugar coating with Sherlock.

I notice with a smirk that he's not mentioning my emotional recovery. I believe he has sensed my return. In fact, there's almost an inherent purring happiness vibrating off the detective ahead of me, that amuses me in its candidness.

_He's been keenly waiting for this._

_So have I._

As we approach the house that was once my shelter, there are already unwelcomed visitors inside. Several men load a van at the back. It doesn't take an imaginative person to see that they are armed. Whatever the merchandise they seek to smuggle to the next stop, it's got to be valuable.

'Okay, Sherlock', I take a deep breath as I speak, 'what is the plan?'

'We can't surprise them, they are too many and we are both outnumbered and underpowered.'

I tilt my head sideways. 'That's an understatement. We have no fire power at all.'

Not if Sherlock can help it, apparently. My friend takes his hand to his waistband behind his back, and grabs hold of a familiar object. It's only as he stretches out his hand to give me a gun that I recognise my Browning.

_What? _'You brought my gun with you?' I'm stunned, why would he think he'd need it?

'I had decided to bring you back to your former self no matter the voyages involved.'

I frown, thinking hard. 'You were planning to take me to my family home at eleven years old, when I decided to become a soldier?'

He shrugs. I stifle a giggle.

'Sherlock, I had my mind set at being a super-hero at the age of nine, and I was convinced I was a cat for a brief period at the age of three. I'm now fairly happy you didn't know _that_.'

In our giddiness, somehow we lowered our guard, I'd realise only when a small noise broke out behind us. In an instinctive move that I wouldn't know how to explain rationally, I turn suddenly, holding out my gun in a steady aim towards the person behind us.

_Oh, no you don't! _'Drop the gun', I tell him, in a thunderous captain Watson voice. _It appears that my angry outbursts are back too._

'You heard him'_, _Sherlock seconds me with an odd mixture of pride and defiance. We're a well oiled team and I feel overjoyed to see him follow my lead so naturally, trusting me so easily, when so often is the other way around between us.

No time to dwell on my little achievements. We can hear a couple of new smugglers joining us from the house, behind us. The hand with which I hold the gun tenses. We were on an armed stand-off, supposedly as equals, and now more firepower joins in from our six hundred hours. It's not looking good for us.

Sherlock sighs almost inaudibly, by my side. I glance over my shoulder to him. He shakes his head. '_Just drop it, John_', he guides me diffidently. I feel the blood draining out of me. No. _I can do this, Sherlock; you need to give me a chance. My reticence comes from the fact this is too dangerous for you._

_Well, I __should guess__ yours comes from the same place._

I lower my gun with a sick twist inside. Urging for action as a panacea for the lack of meaning in my days, I'm now kept at the brink, where it's just out of my reach. I feel it deeply, as if I have been wronged, short-changed from my dues. The only thing I know for sure is that no one will mess with Sherlock under my watch. _I'm making sure of that._

My browning is extracted from my fingers before I can stop the process. I should feel frightened in this situation, where I'm obviously vulnerable and under threat. But my blood is boiling. Someone is going down today, and it won't be captain Watson. Or Sherlock. Someone is about to pay for what fate has put me through.

'This way!'

Ruefully, we're dragged closer to the house. As we step closer to the small van, I notice Sherlock's observing glance inwards. His light coloured eyes narrow. Whatever the smuggled merchandise, it's big. It confirms my friend's worst suspicions.

_I have no idea what those lonely heart ads read. I must remember to have a look later._

Pushed into the old house, we're forced to take a seat in the empty back room's floor. Different wallpaper and overall bigger in size than what the memories of a five year old boy could produce of it, it doesn't faze me much to have it as the chosen background as Sherlock and I are tied to the radiator. The only structural element in the room that allows the smugglers to capture us inside while they move away seems sturdy enough to withstand our desperate efforts to break free as soon as they turn their backs on us. But, of course, that's not enough for the Baker Street's duo. Sherlock and I don't just want to spook these crooks away, we want to present them to justice. _I wonder if Lestrade would be up for a small work fieldtrip__ when we're done..._

Before long the men that tied us up rush out of the house, gathering inside the truck. They are ready to depart, leaving us behind. My childhood home must be one of many hiding places they keep, and as such is dispensable. By the time we warrant the police's attention, they be long gone, with the produce of their smuggling intact.

'We can't let them go!' I complain in frustration. 'Sherlock...'

He doesn't respond. He doesn't need to. He has just managed to free his hands, and is freeing mine immediately.

'Stay here, John!' Sherlock hisses at me, angrily. It leaves me dumbstruck. _What did I do now?_ What eroded is trust in me?

_Nothing_, a small proud voice echoes inside me. _The git wants to keep you safe._

Sherlock ran out of the house, after the last of the smugglers, closer by and parted slightly from the main pack. I'm biting my lip in anxiety over his safety. _I'm not ready to join him ...Am I?_

A warning shout comes from the truck and the alerted criminal turns on Sherlock, that then puts up a doomed fight. I watch it all, powerless and cold. _Sherlock..._

A second capture comes rushing back to secure me, as my friend is being shoved to the ground, unceremoniously. I'm left to watch it all unfold in powerless frustration from the house window. _Come on, Sherlock, you're a hero. My hero._

_You need me._

Slowly, as if climbing up the pecking order of myself, this mad need to fight and protect overwhelms me. It starts as a mad swirling rush of emotions that suddenly condensates into an exploding supernova of finely focused, clear headed, decision making. It's also a plenitude filled awakening. I'm back in touch with who I am, and it feels great. I'm one with the universe and the universe is... well, the universe is the universe, really. The universe doesn't care about me, and that's just how my life goes. And it doesn't bother me in the slightest.

_This is me_, something in the back of my mind screams out in a flash, _this is what I've been made for._ This is me, whole and complete, with a sense of mission in life.

Sherlock's support allowed me to reach this step, from where I explode freely to reach new heights.

_I've got this, Sherlock; just stand back, and let me do this for myself._

Well, it's not actually like Sherlock's got a choice, is it?

I bang on the window that separates me from the rest of the world (or matters to me of it, actually) to call attention upon me. As I expected, one of the smugglers comes to grab me at once.

As I'm being led outside, I know this is the time to act. The sun is softly shinning, warm and luminous outside, as if confirming I made the right choice. In one swift fluid motion, I twist upon myself, grabbing the capture's wrist with my left hand while grasping his gun with my right. Immediately, I'm twisting back forwards and elbowing the man with the impulse of the motion while aiming the firearm in a split second's decision. All my sniper training raising to the occasion, I press the trigger eagerly to protect my friend.

The moment the deflagrated gunpowder smell bitters the air, my conscience kicks in. Oh my God, is Sherlock okay, did I hit the right target? I'm in no good condition to be doing this. I'm exhausted, and intellectually challenged to say the least, what if I done it wrong? In front of me, two people are crouching down. The bullet can only have hit one, from the firing angle. What if I shot Sherlock for them?

An incredible fear, born out of loss and devastation hits me with vicious impact, as I struggle to run, and breathe, and keep my heart beating in my chest.

All of this despair last very little and is cut off as suddenly Sherlock is getting up from the ground, gun in hand.

The smuggler's gun. That was what he was doing on the ground.

'For Christ's sake, Sherlock!' I moan, out of sheer frustration. I catch him staring back at me, puzzled by my reaction.

As he really become so accustomed to my lack of reaction?

'I'm okay, John', he tells me the obvious, making the exception just for me, just as a consideration for my frazzled state. 'No time for that, John! We need to get the rest! We'll go to the small bridge over the brook. Go for the tires, John. I called the local police commissioner. He'll back us up.' More gloomily, he adds: 'The commissioner wants our autographs. This is what your blog gets us into, John!' he pretends to be upset, while he make a dash for the small bridge a few yards away at the side of the house. I can tell I'm not to bother too much with his telling off. Sherlock's used to filling the blank silences between us with the odd comment. _He's used to keeping me afloat from the cold water depths._

We reach the middle of the bridge, I'm panting and out of breath. But there is no time left. The truck full of stolen goods is making its way on the road up ahead, and where we stand I've got a clear angle over the passing vehicle. Only time left for one shot. _Make it count._

_For Sherlock._

It's as natural gesture as a trained soldier with long and comprehensive field experience can make it. The gun fires, the bullet travels to the maximum extent before losing its propelling power altogether, the recoil shoves it back in my wrist, and in an answering reaction the truck swerves off direction and brakes for safety with a flat tire.

Then we're off running again, to secure the truck.

Sherlock gets there first, handcuffing the smugglers - _where did those come from? did he nick them off the commissioner?_ \- and I'm compelled to check them for vitals and reactions after the crash.

Before I know it, Sherlock is softly smiling over my shoulder as I do my job, gun in hand to make sure I'm not disturbed while at it.

The commissioner men arrive shortly after, to close the case.

_**.**_

The commissioner is a heavy man with evident signs of high blood pressure, surely the sort of man that enjoys the pleasures of life. One of his little pleasures may just as well be meeting celebrities, because that's how he's facing both Sherlock and I. For my part, I keep reminding him I'm just the blogger, Sherlock is the one that does the brilliant work. And Sherlock is not fussed about the credits, he just wants to leave the crime scene. That happens to have been a site from my childhood.

With one last remark of brilliancy and snark, Sherlock snaps and leaves. Immediately I give everyone an apologetic look for social good measure, and leave right behind him.

For the first time in days, Sherlock stays in the lead, not waiting for me to catch up.

I still have one last longing glance over my shoulder to those oak and cherry trees, planted by a sweet hand in the back of the house. Then I lock that sweet memory away, that my friend helped me rediscover with his amazing powers of deduction.

'Hang in there, Sherlock! You've got bloody long legs!' I huff.

He pretends he's not even listening.

'If we leave now, we can be back at London by dinner time.'

'Hm, okay.' Is Mrs Hudson expecting him? Why is it so important? He eats and sleeps at all odd hours, usually.

I stare at Sherlock's back, quite disconcerted by his sudden coldness. It hardly fits my good friend's emotional displays of the past days. _Since the hospital._ I frown. Have I finally done something so wrong, so offensive to him, that he needs to gain distance from me? As I'm manically revising my actions, the events, the results, for a clue to explain my friend's behaviour, I'm suddenly struck by the sheer simplicity of the solution. _This is Sherlock._ No, I don't mean he is socially inadequate. Heaven knows these past days are more than proof against that. He is the best friend one could ask for, he just expresses himself differently sometimes, in a way I've learnt to read and cherish. _Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he wasn't the way he is._ And in his _Sherlock_-ness, he needs to assert to himself that all has indeed return to normal. I'm more recuperated, more focused on the present moment, closer to being fully _me_ again. So, he's trying to go back to acting as he always does. Dubiously, mysteriously, amazingly. The way that has captivated my curiosity from the beginning. The way that is his usual norm, that he'll only break – I know that for a fact – on special occasions, making them the most special, and only to a few chosen ones.

'Fine, Baker Street, then', I finally agree (superfluously as it may be). 'Do you think Mrs Hudson can get me something to eat as well?'

He glances at me at last, unbound happiness filling his eyes and trickling down to a small quirk of the lips. 'Sure, John', is all he says.

_He needn't say more. I can sense his thoughts as well as he senses mine._

_**.**_


	106. Chapter 106

_-csf_

* * *

_**.**_

This morning I've been going through old stuff I had, much to my surprise, left at Baker Street. Seated in my old armchair, cup of tea handy, I'm sorting some old papers I left behind with my med student textbooks, occupying the lower half of the shelves at the left of the fireplace. I guess that's why they went unnoticed for so long, anyway. I had long declined the chance of moving them away, seeing that my friend, the self-taught pathology student, seemed to have taken particular shine to them from the start. And when Sherlock was gone, well, it'd have been painful to remove them from 221B, where they seemed to belong so well among my friend's stimulating hoarded treasure collection. Not that I took a lot with me when I left 221B. Just the bare minimum. And old medicine text books – anatomy, pharmacology, disease case studies – were not priorities for a doctor at full swing in his work as a GP.

Mrs Hudson didn't complain either. And if she knew they were actually mine, she never complained of littering.

Today, as I flicked through one of the anatomy volumes, I got hold of some loose papers held inside. Old things. Well, not as old as med school. Most of these, I date them from when I was retired as an army doctor and came back to London, from when I took the books out of Harry's dusty basement.

They are a striking emotional snapshot of the person I was then. As I smooth the surface of an old piece of paper it's like I can still feel the confusion, apprehension, emptiness and all the sense of being _lost_ as I was back then. Before I met Sherlock, before the limp was gone, and while my shoulder healed.

_I'm one lucky sod._

A noise behind me, from the kitchen, alerts me to Sherlock's proximity. And knowing my crazy friend, he won't be able to stop himself from being nosy. _It's what he does best._

'You have some tea there for you, Sherlock', I volunteer the offer he must have found by now.

'You didn't pour it into a mug, John', he notices at once.

'It'd have gone cold by now.'

'Judging by the current temperature of the tea and its volume, noting the approximate temperature coefficient for porcelain crockery about 3 millimetres thick, pouring the tea would have indeed cooled it down too much for my liking.'

'Ta.' _What do you even answer that?_

'It also tells me you've been up for half-an-hour approximately.'

'Really?' _Amazing._

'Honestly, John, you'd never make tea without properly boiling the water so the starting temperature of 100 degrees Celsius is expected.'

'Oh.' _Does he always analyse the tea in the metric system, I wonder._

'You are attempting to distract me, John', he accuses me, all fired up, now. 'I can tell', he adds in an ominous challenge pledge.

'No. No. Definitely not.' _Crap. Not even I would believe myself with this stumbled answer._

'You _are_ hiding something from me, how quaint.' His voice almost purrs, as if waking up to a pocket edition homely mystery is the best breakfast for Sherlock.

Why, again, did I accept to come over for the weekend?

'Yeah, right', I pretend to agree. 'I'm hiding dull anatomy books', and I raise one up to show him.

Sherlock actually comes round my chair to inspect the book I'm holding. This is too much, and I gather all the books back to the shelf, before I leave my place.

'I'm going to get myself some toast, Sherlock', I evade. 'I'll make you some as well.'

He nods, proving to me that he wasn't even listening. 'And some eggs?' I venture. Maybe if he nods again I can later use it to pressure him into eating them.

As I look back to my friend, he's bending over to reach something under the side table by my armchair. I freeze reflexively as I see him snatch up a piece of paper and look it over.

Before saying anything, he glances at me, fully green eyes piercing me. I look away, trying to think of a way to distract him – only to realise this was a dead give-away. Bravely, I turn back to Sherlock. I can't remember what is the content of the paper he found. Could even have slipped off a book before I saw it. Whatever it may be, it's causing one of the strangest reactions I've ever seen upon my friend. The usually maniac detective on a scent is quiet and demure as he analyses the paper.

I decide to go and meet my fate.

I walk back to Sherlock and he angles the piece of paper so we can both look. _Damn._

It's a drawing. Not that great, I'm sure. I used to draw at the army, it helped pass the time on low activity periods. Drew a lot of my patients, of the landscape, of my treasured memories from back home. But then I got shot, and recuperating from the bust shoulder, it became painful to draw. I may be right-handed shooter, but I'm left-handed for drawing, writing and most everything else. My hands' abilities follow the same duality that defines who I am, I guess.

This drawing was one of my attempts while recovering from my shoulder surgery. At the time I was feeling... well, it's all in the drawing, isn't it?

The sketch of a man seen from his back, furtively glancing over his shoulder, back at the viewer. Not just any man. A soldier. The accurate lines of musculature and ligaments on the shirtless back are a study in anatomy in itself. There's a slight brokenness to the left shoulder, over which the figure glances. Expression lines, heavy and sorrowed mare the blurs shadowed face, but the focus of the picture is on the vast expanse of his back. Two symmetric wings flow down all the expanse of the bare flesh, in light feathers, detailed and biologically credible. The right side of the figure holds the wing folded neatly, perfect, whole. The left side holds a folded hurt wing. There's a broken touch, a disarray of feathers and an awkward inward angle to the end tip. It's still beautiful, but not perfect. Maybe not even be functional. The figure's facial expression now reminds me of a burdened knowledgeable expression of this mythological creation of mine – man and bird; angel if you like – that can't be whole again. The reason of the loss is not represented at all, however. On my back left shoulder I carry the scar of the bullet's entry wound. This figure that states statically back at me has nothing but empty blank void there. A scarred wing for a scarred shoulder.

I'm glad I didn't show _that _to my therapist. She wouldn't have understood I was just trying to cope with my new self. Or I wanted a tattoo; but I never got one. Yeah, I think I wanted one, at the time. The painful reality that an ink needle could inject subcutaneously is me as an aid to accept what was now a part of me forever.

I almost forgot Sherlock. He's looking at my drawing with intense observation, his expression almost veering on devotion.

'I don't have wings on my back, Sherlock', I tell him sternly at once. 'It was just... a silly drawing', I grab it off his hand, crumble it and chuck it in the cold fireplace. 'Toast?' I try again.

He nods, mimicking my distance at once, and he allows me to leave without further questioning me. Slowly he takes a seat on his armchair, hands raised together pressing against his chin, thoughtful.

I bring him a couple of toasts a few minutes later that he accepts in the same abstraction. I take a seat on front of him with my laptop, to read the news. As I pause, a bit later, to glance at the fireplace – it's getting chilly, autumn is setting – I notice my crumpled drawing is gone. I sigh.

'Sherlock, did you—'

'No.'

'I mean, really, did you—'

'_Just drop it, John._'

No point in protesting, I know Sherlock will just deny all knowledge. I just don't get what Sherlock wants with an old drawing for keepsake, at all. Or why does he find me, and my memories, so worthwhile treasuring.

_**.**_


	107. Chapter 107

_A/N: This was too long to be one post, and now it's two small posts. -csf_

* * *

_**1**__**.**_

'It's late, we lost the bad guys, I'm tired, Mary's not waiting up for me, and I think I'd love to kip here tonight, Sherlock. Is that okay with you?' I mumble it all at once, under a veil of exhaustion, as we're heading into 221 Baker Street.

Sherlock nods with no reservations, as he hangs his long damp coat in the hanger beside my jacket.

'_Just drop it, John_, you never need to ask. You can always stay at Baker Street.' A hint of a warm smile is barely disguised by the equally exhausted consulting detective.

Sherlock, Greg and I have been chasing the Lisbon kidnapping suspects for hours on end. We would have made it, but for the fact that they boarded a stolen double-decker bus (after throwing out the driver and with no passengers inside, so no hostage situation to handle; just some early commuters confused and angry to be stood up at the bus stop; DI Lestrade decided that's not his division anymore, and passed it along to Traffic Control).

In the end, the kidnappers got away without kidnapping anyone else, so that's always a win.

The whole chase took most of the night, therefore, and even my noctivagus friend looks tired now, and ready to get some sleep. Well, I suppose he can sleep as much as he likes. I'm expected at the clinic for another shift in three or four hours (I'd rather not look at my wristwatch and make the maths – some things are best left unknown). The trouble is I'm too wound-up to sleep right now. But something, maybe the fact that 221B is homely and quiet as we enter, or that Sherlock is grumbling some sort of good night wishes as he compliantly retires to his room and his bed squeals under the added weight immediately, as if he didn't even bother to change his suit to some nightly attire, makes my mind up.

I sneak a sleeping pill from the depths of my jeans' pockets and try to take full advantage of those three or four hours I've got left. I swallow the pill dry, shove the packaging onto the bin (and miss it by an inch, but I can't be bothered) and shuffle upstairs to my old room.

Just like I suspected, Mrs Hudson still hasn't evicted my old bed, covered by an old duvet to keep the dust off the mattress. Good enough for me, as I scramble off my damp boots (we chased the Lisbon kidnappers riverside) and I throw myself atop the stripped bare mattress and cover myself with the duvet.

_Mrs Hudson is a saint._

And with the very appreciative thought of how homely 221B is to an exhausted soldier, I let myself fall through the hazy depths of sleep.

I'm woken up by a clandestine sound, echoing in the stairwell. I think I heard a step creak. And as I'm working my head around the innocent sound, it repeats itself.

Two people, then. Two intruders, coming up the stairs.

_It's funny how the mind of a trained soldier works. Had they come about all bang and noise, I'd probably have slept through just fine. It's the harmless sound of twigs breaking, footsteps approaching, or guns having their security released that always jerks me awake._

Adrenaline pumping in my veins, I push the covers away and swing my legs over the mattress. My black and white striped socks hit the cold floor boards gently as I try to hold back. Could this be Mrs Hudson? No, there were two people stepping on that creaky trap.

_And Mrs Hudson has long learnt not to sneak her way into my room anymore. And I'm really ashamed that I pointed a __cocked gun__ at her, right in the first week at 221B, she had decided to bring me up a morning tea, like she often did for Sherlock. The blessed woman just shook her head like she would to a naughty toddler and reminded me: 'It's too early to go pointing those things at people, doctor Watson. You are safe in here. Why won't you put the gun down and have a nice cup of tea instead?' She was all motherly and sweet as I lowered a shaking hand and burst into red-faced apologies. She proceeded to gently extract the gun from my slackened fingers, clicked the safety back on, and put it on the bedside table within my reach, before asking: 'One or two sugars, dear?'_

I reached my bedroom door and I open it slowly, making sure to be silent. No tea waiting for me outside, as I expected. Too early anyway. So, not Mrs Hudson.

At this hour there are still no morning lights filtering in through the bedroom window behind me. There's only a slight paleness to the sky, not enough to project any shadow to the stairs. Still, taking all precautions, I cuddle the gun in my hand and close the bedroom door behind me.

_Greg would think I'm being delusional and that I've imagined those sounds earlier, or the way they still echo in my mind right now. I wouldn't blame him if he thought I was being paranoid. An exhausted sleep-deprived war veteran wandering the house before the break of dawn, gun in hand? Hell, any decent chap would have me committed to a mental health facility in no time._

I wish I hadn't taken that sleeping pill now. It's making my body drowsy and my mind scattered.

Greg Lestrade and Mrs Hudson shouldn't be my main concerns. Sherlock Holmes is the one in danger, right now.

Gun cocked in my right hand, supported calmly by my left hand, I lower a socked foot over the first step down the stairs. I've decided to go meet and face danger on my own. Anyway, I haven't got a phone. Both Sherlock and I left our phones on our coats at the hanger downstairs. _Rookie mistake._

A new noise tingles all my senses. A blade running through a dull surface. More than that, a knife coming out of the leather sheath. Not a sound a soldier would easily forget.

The sound seemed to originate from the living room. So they aren't on to Sherlock yet. _Looks like they are __rookies__ too._ Possibly looking for incriminating evidence. Of course Sherlock runs multiple cases at a time, but I'd venture it's the Lisbon brothers coming for us, after ditching the double-decker bus. How _thoughtful_ of them, saving me the hassle of worrying while at work, later today.

I proceed downwards, carefully avoiding another creaky step in my way. I've got the advantage. I know 221B like the back of my gun wielding hand.

Almost reaching the landing, the impossible coincidences of life happen. The living door is swung open, and the Lisbon brothers and I face each other in the dusky area, where the lamplight's glow hardly reaches from the living room windows.

'Hold it', I threaten them at once, aiming my gun explicitly at them and adding, for good measure, a heavy captain Watson stare.

They don't take me as seriously as they should. I guess I'm not much of a sight, in the middle of the night. Tousled spiky blondish hair on end, crinkled clothes and black and white striped socks that seem striking in the semi-darkness, it's only because of the gun's steely shine that they actually freeze in the spot.

'Gotcha!' I add, allowing a victorious smirk to spread over my features.

Life's little coincidences don't stop there, though. Possibly because I spoke too loud, there's fresh noise coming from Sherlock's room, followed by the owner's voice, calling me: 'John?' His voice is tentative, uncomfortable.

'I'm here, Sherlock! Not alone', I tell him at once.

'Are you...' he hesitates '...awake?'

I sigh and shake my head. He thinks I might be having a flashback nightmare, I can only guess. 'Hope I'm awake!' I answer back. 'Call Greg, I have the Lisbon kidnappers here.'

'I don't have a phone!' he tells me after a second's worth of silence. Either he believes I'm not hallucinating or he has decided to play along anyway.

'Fine! I'll do it. Just stay clear of–_argh!'_

'John!'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	108. Chapter 108

_A/N: This is what happens when it's taking forever in line to the cashier to buy... well, yes, stripey socks, among other things. No, I didn't write this then. That was afterwards. Just came up with the concept before I paid. It takes me forever to write something up, anyway. -csf_

_ Sidenote (yes, another one!) to SimmonsButterflys (I'm not allowed to PM you!): In short, find a good catch phrase (I didn't) and go for it, I hold no copyrights! To tell the truth, sometimes I write the story and then realise I forgot the expression because I got so carried away! So silly... -csf_

* * *

_**2.**_

No time to answer my worried friend. The older kidnapper has thrown a knife in my direction and I had to duck for cover. The sharp blade got buried in the wallpaper behind me. _Mrs Hudson will be upset._

As I momentarily lost focus on them, the two brothers started sprinting downstairs.

_Shit, they have whatever they came for._

_They can't get away!_

I shove the gun in my belt and try to rush downstairs after them. Don't need to further upset Mrs Hudson with bullet holes in her wallpaper.

_Not fast enough. _I make the decision, hang on to the railing with one hand and swing my legs over it.

Right on target, I fell down on the next flight of stairs, on top of the youngest brother. We both topple down a few steps, but it's easy to regain balance. I grab the perp tightly and use his ugly high fashion belt to clasp his hands together behind his back. Meanwhile the older brother is getting away. _No brotherly love lost between those two._ As I rush down the last steps he's already reaching the front door, opening it. I suppose I could use the gun, but that would be cheating. So instead I grab Mrs Hudson's china pot by the start of the stairs and thrown at him. He ducks just in time, and it explodes in a multitude of pieces by the door frame.

_Oh, she's going to kill _me_ now._

The stupid ex-soldier _(aka, me) _used his stupid less-than-compliant left shoulder to throw the messy blunt weapon and a responding stupid throb was really unhelpful when the said soldier lost his balance on the muddy step and fell backwards at the end of the stairs, losing his breath altogether on impact.

My cursing is enough to elicit the attention of the older kidnapper, that backtracks and returns towards me (and his brother, further upstairs). As I struggle to get on my feet despite the dizziness, he grabs my gun and points it at my face.

_Rude._

_And a rookie mistake._

I kick the guy in his groin as I grab the gun with both hands to veer it away. It goes off immediately, the heat surging through the metal casing and the kick back of a recoil hardly distracting me in keeping my own gun out of my face. The bullet got lodged in the creakiest of all steps, where my head still stands. In an old Watson move I sprain his wrist and force him to release the gun, my gun, on to the stairs, and elbow him hard on the neck to disorient him. The blow is sharp enough to make his heart skip a beat as his chest constrict as if he couldn't breathe. Of course he can. He just feels like he can't and backs off me at once. I take hold of the gun again as my number one priority, and before I can do anything else, the younger brother is rolling down the stairs, passes the turn of those stairs, almost coming down to us, preceding a cranky detective, on foot and stomping down in all seriousness.

'John?' he calls out, not cranky at all anymore. 'Were you hurt?' There's a deep concern in his voice.

I turn the oldest kidnapper against the wall and restrain his movements. 'Not hurt', I answer instinctively, before I can even think about his question. That's _always_ the correct answer to give my friend; _not hurt_.

This is when the whole street explodes into furious blue intermittent lights and police sirens. I have no doubt they are being led by a loyal, equally sleep-deprived, DI Lestrade. I look up at Sherlock, who frowns as he senses my question, then shrugs. _Of course he phoned the police._ Although the gunshots fired would have eventually drawn them in, but not necessarily led by Lestrade, who Sherlock prefers.

'We've got a landline, John. Have you never noticed?' In fact, there are a few new and old style landline phones in 221B, now I come to think about it. Didn't think they were connected, actually. Never saw them being used.

'Never saw you using those old phones.'

'I prefer to text', he shrugs. It's non-important, apparently.

'Oh', I get it. With a rough pull I brusquely push the thug along with me to the street, where Greg Lestrade and some other officers are already running towards us.

'John!' he calls out, relieved. 'You okay?'

I nod sharply, military-like. 'Take this guy and charge him with kidnapping, evading the police, burglary, attempted murder, _not letting me sleep, whatever!_'

Greg gestures to one of his men to take over. A couple of other Yarders are extracting the younger brother under Sherlock's careful watch. 'Nice work, Sherlock!' Greg compliments with an arched brow and a low whistle to emphasise.

I smile at Sherlock, who saved the day. To my surprise, he states: 'Not me, inspector. It was all John.'

I frown at my friend. It's not like him to shift the spotlight to me. Something is up. Anyway, I wasn't the one calling off 221B's bunker-like security (constant courtesy of Mycroft Holmes) to lure the Lisbon kidnappers to us, ultimately getting them caught.

'I know you planned this, Sherlock.'

'You have no proof, John', he defies me, like a naughty kid. Greg stares at both of us, in his parental attitude, but seemingly lost for words.

'Baker Street is safer than Buckingham Palace and as impenetrable as Fort Knox, usually. Care to tell me how those two _rookies_ got inside?'

'Hardly matters', he ventures, haltingly. 'For the record, I didn't expect them so soon, John.'

_Now, wait a minute!_ 'So you were okay to be attacked when I wasn't even here? That's way too reckless, even for you!' I accuse him, aggravated.

'Given my choice of profession and company, I'd think it'd be obvious I enjoy some degree of danger, possibly higher than the average person... I'm not exactly the only one, am I?'

'Shush it', I threaten him at once. Before I can further protest, Greg sighs and intervenes, following protocol:

'Police station for statements?' It's been a very long night, and it's not even dawn yet, although the sky is getting lighter above us.

I glance at my wristwatch. 'Fine by me, but I'll need a ride to work afterwards. No point in trying to get some sleep now, is there?' I add, cranky. Greg is a good man and he gives me a commiseration look.

'Tough luck, mate... Where did Sherlock go?' he notices, before me. In fact, Sherlock has completely vanished.

I look at Greg's confusion, then at the street (curious faces on the windows as the police officers hassle on, some of them are probably filming us with their phones) and back to 221's open door and lit entrance. Sherlock is coming out, all pristine impeccable look with his long coat on, and holding my jacket negligently, not wanting to publicise the kind gesture of retrieving it for me.

_It shows that he cares, maybe he's even sorry for my middle of the night danger surprise._

I put my jacket on and duck to enter the police car with its door open, when two sets of hands hold me back at once. _What?_ I'm hardly in the mood.

Then I follow their gazes onto my sock clad feet on the damp pavement.

I frown, confused and overpowered with sleep. Who will take seriously a former soldier with sleep tousled hair and no shoes?

_I look like some stripey socked hedgehog, when I catch my reflection on the car window._

Oh, this is going to be one very, very long day... At least now I can say the day got off to a good start.

.


	109. Chapter 109

_A/N: It's not much, but it's what I've got. More to come. You see, sometimes I just don't have time to write. But I have a plan... -csf_

* * *

_**. Part One .**_

Sherlock's newest case brought us back to Baskerville's top secret government facilities, out in the bleakest parts of the moors. A sci-fi haven full of the wildest desires a team of top notch genetic engineers and scientists could create. An elusive, dangerous, troubling place, guarded by military personnel. Also home to a great nightmare come alive of mine, but that's between Sherlock and I. He promised he wouldn't do it again. _Sort of._ And I believed him. _Sort of._

I do believe that in the end my friend felt guilt over his actions, so no more of that. The man can't be chagrined over it for the rest of his life.

Well, he _can_, but you know what I mean.

So I guess we're still standing on uncertain ground over this expedition. To qualm my natural hesitations, Sherlock asked Greg Lestrade to join us. _Or maybe Sherlock just wanted to have another willing victim to go all mad scientist on, _a part f my brain supplies. No, mustn't think that...

Can't bring myself to tell Greg that Baskerville is the stuff bad dreams are made of. I'm sure he read the tension on my features and short speech, though. More than that, it would be to expose my vulnerability and I've been trained as a soldier, for heaven's sake! Sometimes I wonder if I overreacted in that first lab, when I believed I was being hunted down by a gigantic hound. And the gas, let's not forget about the gas. I got exposed while in there. And—

In the end, Greg got called into a crime scene to replace a colleague Yarder, and couldn't make it in this fieldtrip with us. Felt somewhat like a lucky break to me. I tried not to focus on how his narrow escape, or on how I felt so envious of it for a moment.

Needless to say, after Greg became unavailable, I felt further pressured into this comeback. Wouldn't want Sherlock to go alone, potentially into danger. As one last attempt of resuming some simile of control, I told Sherlock I started smoking. And that implied I need to go out for a smoke once in a while. See, that would work. I could get out if I was growing overwhelmed again, just like last time and the bloody imaginary super dog. The memory of it only too present yet; when I heard the loud paws scratching on the floor approaching me and the heavy panted breathing and—

Yes, it was a lousy lie, even if I thought it was brilliant at the time. It was also the best I could come up with on the spot. Sherlock will certainly notice I don't smell of cigarettes upon my return. Doesn't take a detective for that, certainly not the best one in London.

As soon as my lousy lie left my lips, Sherlock smiled haughtily at my excuse to get some fresh air at my convenience. He didn't expose the lie within, however. _I'm thankful for small blessings._

If I truly started smoking (don't really want to, though), my friend would do so as well, in a heartbeat. So I won't. Sherlock may be an undisputed genius but he's got a few favourite vices of his own, and I need to set an example.

I guess that's what I'm doing right now, coming back to Baskerville. I know Sherlock was terrified as well, for what he experienced out in those moors. _Won't make the mistake of minimising it again._

_If it's painful for me to come back, it must be for him as well._

_No matter how much he tries to pretend that he is above all such raw emotions as fear._

"You can stay in London if you prefer, John", he was cheeky enough to tell me when I accepted his invitation.

Not with a funny face, though. He actually sounded very serious.

"No, Sherlock, I'll come." That's what friends are for.

_**.**_

'_Come in, the kettle's just boiled!'_

I frown immediately. That sounds oddly familiar. I clear my throat and glance around in suspicion at the ample bleach-white lab, before refocusing my attention in doctor Stapleton.

'How's little Kirsty?' I ask politely.

'Missing Bluebell the rabbit', Sherlock chirps in, balancing on his heels and quirking a mock smile.

I pretend I heard nothing while the affable lady with the dead cold eyes, in a white lab coat, looks at Sherlock like he's a curious specimen. _From one scientist to the next, of course._ I'm the only non-scientist in the room and I may be holding all the common sense between the three of us.

'Welcome to the lab', she says in a sedated voice, regrouping. 'You know your way around this place, Mr Holmes. Captain Watson.'

_Only too well_, the three of us could have added.

'Nice to be here', I reply to be polite, not even crossing gazes with them. Just glancing around the sterile laboratory, slick, modern, white and cold, huge as it is. _No hound in sight. Good, keep it up... _I hardly notice how I hold my hands united behind my back and overall stand at parade's rest.

Who am I trying to fool? Maybe it's time I stop pretending anything in this fieldtrip with Sherlock is harmless. I don't trust these scientists, I don't trust these labs to be _hound_-less, and I'm struggling to even trust Sherlock.

I clear my throat as I reach a decision. 'I'm going out for a smoke, Sherlock. I'll be back in two minutes.'

As soon as I pronounce the convincing words of my excuse, Sherlock's head snaps towards me. I open my own eyes wide under the mesmerising scrutiny of my friend's aqua coloured eyes.

'Hm, yeah, nicotine, I miss some...' I mutter. 'Addictive thing, nicotine is...' I stumble along under his piercing gaze, assessing me, because I'm lying and I know it's obvious to him. I'm now sure he knows it, and again he chooses not to expose me. In a way, protecting me. _I feel bad._

Doctor Stapleton shakes her head. 'Oh, no, smoking isn't allowed anywhere in the premises, captain Watson. Even on the outside. Too many inflammable substances around', she adds on, mysteriously.

I barely restrain myself from shuddering. My back up plan has been shredded to pieces. Without the grace of a safety net, I feel at a loss.

Sherlock pretends he noticed nothing as he leads on: 'Maybe we can go to the Operation Pegasus' lab, now?'

She smiles again, without a hint of warmth. 'Yes, I'll take you there before the team evacuates the premises and leaves you in full control.'

_What? Alone in here?_

_With Sherlock? Again?_

_I'm not in full control, you've got to be kidding me!_

Greg's the lucky one; I think gloomily, and follow the two mad scientists towards my apparent doom.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	110. Chapter 110

_A/N: I may have overdone it in the last one, but I wanted to give John this catastrophist doomsday-like feeling. Instinct tells him that something is not going to go well. __He's right.__ So..._

_Context:__ John reticently accepts to return to Baskerville, following a closed lip Sherlock for a case. Part two of I-don't-know-how-many._

_Still not British (English is not even my first language, nor will it ever be), much of a writer (no, that won't come to happen either), or anything other than myself. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part Two .**_

Little Kirsty Stapleton's mum leaves Baskerville within the hour, escorted on a military truck, alongside the rest of the scientists. Minimal contact as been allowed between the scientific community dwelling in this top secret site and us, the unwanted visitors that have come to take over the place. Even the location to where the team is being taken temporarily, parting them from this place and their ongoing work, is classified. Sherlock and I know better than to ask the few closed lip military personnel that separate us from the majority of the scientists working at Baskerville.

_Well, Sherlock being Sherlock must have a few insightful guesses of his own._

Wherever doctor Stapleton and the other scientists are being taken, it must be part of a secretive plot, as hush-hush as the facility itself.

'Wow, Sherlock! Did you have to sell your soul to get this place all for ourselves?' I joke. He tenses up with my question and evades a direct answer.

'I had something my brother wanted.'

Frowning, I turn my head to face his closed-off expression. We've been watching the military convoy fade in the distance on those long roads over the moors, by one of the complex's cctv camera monitors (Sherlock had no trouble finding this control room; I rather not think it through). 'What does that even mean, Sherlock?'

'Nothing you should worry about, John!' he answers negligently. 'I've got change, if you need', he adds.

'Change?'

'For the vending machine. Cigarettes, remember?'

_Yeah, except I don't smoke, that was a convenient lie._

'I'm trying to quit', I tell him.

'Before you even start. Very sensible of you. Actually, you couldn't technically do it any sooner, could you?' he mocks easily my innocent lie with a devious expression in his face. I play along with a giggle. After all, Sherlock chose not to brilliantly expose my lie in a deductive monologue in front of friends or strangers. He left it to the both of us, in the privacy of a genetic experiments facility, where he can figure out what the hell my lie was for.

_For coverage._

'Sherlock, I...' sighing, I lose all my words – and reason, perhaps. How do I explain to my rational friend that I am still wary of this gigantic hound's memories? Whether it echoes my old PTSD or it is grounded in good old fashioned common sense, none of those reasonable explanations would ease Sherlock.

'I mean...If you think you can start smoking out of the blue, Sherlock', I counterattack, 'then so can I, as far as I see it.'

He shrugs and looks away like a kid who's been caught. _Match point for John Watson._ 'I'm always thinking about resuming smoking, John. If you only took notice this time around...'

I shake my head. 'Last time you almost smoked was three month ago. _You are doing great, Sherlock. Don't quit now._ That time you got them from one of Molly's co-workers. Nicked them, to be precise.'

He drills me with a measuring look. 'You knew?'

'Molly phoned me as soon as her co-worker asked her if she had seen them. It wasn't brain surgery, Sherlock.'

'No, it was autopsy', he corrects, with a smirk.

_Smarty pants_. He won't give a straight answer today, it seems. _Must be brewing about something in that big brain of his._

As soon as the last of the convoy disappears in the distance's fuzziness of the security monitors, Sherlock is invested with a new and vibrant energy.

'Let's go, John!' He sets off at once. With a double look I find him already moving away and gather my wits quickly so I can follow my now hyperactive friend.

I hasten my walk to match up with Sherlock's lengthy strides. In a hush-hush tone I worry: 'Sherlock, what are we doing here? What can possibly be a case that brings us back to Baskerville?'

My friend smirks haughtily. 'A good case.' I roll my eyes; standing somewhat behind him, he won't even notice. My friend is keen to keep hold of his secrets. Intending, no doubt, to dazzle me with his brilliancy when resolving the case. He fails to notice, as always, that I'm prone to be in awe with his work, no matter the smoke and mirror type of tricks he pulls off. _He's just that brilliant._ If anything, it's the memories of past nightmares at this location that keeps me on edge right now. I'm struggling this time to do what is so often natural to me – that is, to blindly follow him along. Still, it's what I'll do. I would never pass an opportunity to witness and participate in my friend's cases. It's a rare privilege that Sherlock as extended to no one before me. I intend to honour the trust he places in me.

As I choose to follow my endearingly mad friend, I'm pushing away the disastrous past experiences at this laboratories that still haunts me. _Or should I say "hounds" me?_ We go past that first lab, the one where it all took place, and I'm compelled to glance inside, tightening my jaw. It's a minor tell that Sherlock immediately picks up on. As if monitoring my thoughts and reading my mind, he tells me then: 'No gigantic hounds on this case, if that will ease your mind, John.'

I frown, suspicious. That was a very specific denial. So... _No, it doesn't ease my mind, Sherlock. There is a vast array of possibilities you didn't deny there, Sherlock._

Still, and for lack of better judgement, I trust my friend again. And something in the fact that is quiet assurance targets one of our main traumatic experiences at Dartmoor, not minimising it or criticising me over it, exhibits that subtle layer of trust between us, that doesn't get broken. I trust Sherlock to know me well – I believe it for a fact – and I have confidence that his invitation here was a pondered careful gesture that takes in consideration our shared experiences.

Following the enthusiastic detective's lead, we slow down by an open doors lift, the contained metal space shining bright and luminous. Sherlock enters at once. I lock my jaw and follow swiftly, with one last glance along the corridor we came through.

The lift is unlocked by a small key Sherlock inserts in the operating panel. It then shuts its stainless steel doors tight and jolts to a fast start. The blood rushes to my head as we near the state of free falling, so fast the pace at which we descend. Gravity is slowed down, making me feel lighter in weight, as if lifted off my feet. Wherever we're going, we're arriving there fast. I hold no good idea as to why this private lift should be so fast or on how deep into the ground we're going in our steady descent.

'Mycroft got us here, this time', I insist, going over the few facts I possess. Sherlock's eyes narrow so softly in response to my words, proving me I'm on the right track. 'If it has got your big brother's attention, it's not about Bluebell Two', I add.

'Blueberry', he corrects me at once. Finally reality is catching up with our little suspension mode and it comes to crash us, apparently, as the lift slows down to its destination.

I frown. I'm quite sure the rabbit's name was "Bluebell", _wasn't it? _'It was "Bluebell", Sherlock.'

He shrugs, just as the lift halts completely. 'We're here, John', he states calmly as the doors begin to open.

_Did he just say "Blueberry" to distract me long enough so he wouldn't answer me again? _With a heavy uncomfortable feeling of doom to come pooling at my stomach again, I face the doors opening ahead of us.

'We are really below ground', I notice. Sherlock only hums affirmatively, but won't volunteer further information. 'That was seven or eight floors, in the least.'

'Six', he corrects me as if scientific accuracy was something he couldn't help himself with. 'Did you not count?'

I just shake my head, slightly bewildered. No, I didn't count. I was too busy being swept off my feet due to the sheer speed of our descent. Anyway... 'Why do we need to come all the way down here, Sherlock?'

This time he just ignores my question, like I'm pestering him with repetitive questioning. Although he's not fast enough to hide his smirk, as if he expected none less of me than all this insistence. _I could use a little more cooperation, Sherlock._

_He enjoys keeping me in the dark, I believe._

We come out of the lift to a darkened corridor, shooting straight ahead of us. With my eyes accustomed to the bright lights inside the lift, I'm still squinting to make out its details as we step in. The end of the corridor dives into shadows and recesses, but I can just make out several aligned doors with vertical glass panels that should open up to, possibly, more laboratories. Unlike the top floors, these four or five laboratories are more contained and secretive at first glance. Several signs lining the door – _corrosive, explosive, inflammable, toxic, carcinogenic_ – hiding most of its exposed surface, broken up by the glass panels that allow the sodium lights within to permeate outside, marking the corridor with bright bold strips of light.

'What are these?' I voice a different question.

'The secret labs', he deigns to answer. Then with a fast glance at my expression he realises he needs to further particularise: 'Where Baskerville's experiments are bordering the grey areas of ethics and law. This is no man's land, John. This is where they hold the experiments that the government will deny any knowledge of.'

'Why?' I ask; simply, practically.

Sherlock smirks again. 'Always the inquisitive mind, John', he deflects, but I can sense complicity. 'My brother would say it's because others won't be following the rules either. Foreign agents, rogue agents, cult leaders, psychopathic geniuses, mercenaries, terrorists, or just people with an agenda and no real allegiance expect to the higher bidder. It doesn't really matter _who_. These experiments are meant as state of the art research before others come up with it, so they can be assessed, catalogued, prevented, minimised, and a full plan of reaction can be created.' He tilts his head sideways. 'That's what Mycroft likes to do to fall asleep when he has his insomnias, anyway.'

'So why does Mycroft need you to come here?'

'He is convinced someone is feeding the enemy with classified information', finally the genius tells me.

'Why would he think that?'

'Because I told him that. I told him I found evidence, but I couldn't tell him where it originated.'

'You don't know who the mole is', I translate, slowly and allowing the full impact of that statement reach me. Someone in this dangerous place has gone rogue, and may hold the plans that were designed to protect the country, turning them into harming weapons. 'Who do you suspect?'

He shrugs his shoulders. 'Coronel Mustard, in the library, with a candlestick', he recites jokingly.

'Wait! You didn't-!' I'm appalled to understand that my friend invented a case and a mole in top notch security facility just so he could get his big brother to give us an all access free pass to stroll around the facilities.

He rolls his eyes dramatically. 'No, John, I didn't quite make it all up. Even my brother would have suspected as much. No, there really is suspect activity going on here, John. My network of contacts has stumble upon thinly veiled traces of something big, and they led to good old Baskerville. My brother is aware of that much. While I'm consulted as a specialist to identify the source of concern in the people here, I'm actually investigating a secretive secondary experiment that is going on here. It was cleverly masked in the stock inventories and there is no paper nor electronic trace of it, but whispers from the underground tell us there are buyers lining up to get it.'

'Get what?' I insist.

'That is the mystery that begs to be uncovered in these labs, John.'

I exhale slowly. This is a tough assignment, of the utmost importance.

_If anyone can do it, it's Sherlock._

Mindfully, we move forwards. As we proceed, the lights on the corridor are lit by a sensor, urging us onward. It's only as the lift doors close with a sharp noise and I glance over my left shoulder behind me that I fully notice that as we are moving along the lights are also being turned off behind us. A mere technical detail, but it further exposes my feelings of isolation and vulnerability. Well, there's only one way forward now...

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	111. Chapter 111

_(A/N) __Context:__ John reticently accepts to return to sci-fi Baskerville, following a tight-lipped Sherlock for a case. Part three of still-don't-know-how-many._

_Still not British, a writer__,__ or a mad scientist__. __-csf_

* * *

_**. Part Three .**_

There's a purplish glow to the dimmed lights in this underground lab that Sherlock has selected for us to visit, giving the space an evil lair sort of feel. Long desks by the wall are punctuated by glass shelves full of biological specimen jars (what can they hold inside, what are those translucent tissue samples?), colourful solutions in vials and 3D prints of anatomical sections of what appear to be crossovers between human and animal natures. It doesn't ring alarm bells quite as much as the pair of medical examination stainless steel tables, from where leather straps hang at head, wrist and ankle level. Their stillness is sharp against the flickering on the laptop screens, rolling thousands of data entries in green lettering over a black background. Some sort of analysing software, I assume, as primitive as an internet free facility needs to be in order to hold capture its many secrets.

No-one in this lab seems to have had the clearance level necessary to contact the outside world. Family, friends, worldly events and sports – all knowledge denied in the name of advancing science and conquering the laws of nature. These scientists (or, essentially, these people) are recluses, chained to their work and life missions. And their captivity comes about compliantly, subjecting themselves to imprisonment for Queen and Country, for a sense of pride and daring, for professional recognition, for money and resources, or for something else entirely; I wouldn't know. This handful of people have willingly denied themselves all that comprises our usual mundane existence, turning their backs to it, till they are no more than shadowy ghosts of a foretold apocalyptic post-contemporary world. This tinges with both excitement and horror all that Sherlock and I are witnessing, as we wander in the creepy empty lab, with little more than the residual footsteps of their denied existence.

Even the phone is a retro 60s looking bulky thing at a desk, clearly only meant for internal lines of communication. In fact, there seems to be an equilibrium between retro looking objects – from when times were deemed simpler – and the state of the art – science novelties, in fact – only the best funded labs can afford to have.

I cling to the human aspects of this underground working existence. Where do these men and women live? How are they voluntarily kept in this hermit-like status for so long, imperative in order to give full continuity to each one of their projects?

Who would accept this for themselves? This isolation and immersion in this draining world of intensive research and creation, where they are both workers and gods alike, where their work's progress is unbidden by morals or deontology. Where their voice is the only heard inside these walls.

No wonder one of them snapped.

I've seen men snap with less, as an army doctor. Out in distant battlefields, cut off from their home and everything they hold dear, verging on a state of exhaustion that narrows their reality to a dangerous Then and There alone. A dangerous detachment that is only natural, human. How can the big brothers that run this place ignore the toll it places upon human existence in their staff, in the name of progress, science or national interest?

Sherlock has stayed at the back, while I indulged in a few uneasy footsteps inside this lab. The dimmed purple lights seem to originate from lamps fitted with an array of reddish filters, further ahead. Some other lights, clinical white and green tinged, are located behind shelves and they shimmer through unlabelled jars full of transparent liquids, with fingers, ears, eyelids floating in the suspension.

This place creeps the daylights out of me. Even as a doctor, it horrifies me to have elevated to almost art installations these afterlife suspensions in formaldehyde.

Sherlock might find himself happy here, though, for a good couple of hours.

As I turn around to look at my friend, I catch sight of hundreds of photographs hanging from pegs in an improvised washing line over a basin, at the most secluded corner of the lab, where the lights glow in a more reddish tone. Someone's private photograph studio encompasses several pictures of families. Alive; _thankfully – a part of my mind supplies_. After being stationed in a war zone I've had quite enough of the reverse, and I let go of an instinctive sigh of relief. But I can't properly relax, as I study these images. The people photographed wear current clothes and hairstyles, although there is something marking their expression that unnerves me. None of them smiles to the photographer. All the photographed are expressionless, bland, reserved. As to the location of the background, I can't tell. They are too close shots, in front of street walls and plastered indoor walls, too generic to be identified. _They look like prisoners of war, too broken to react._

I shiver, from head to toe.

'John.' My friend's deep steady voice meets me at once.

'What is this lab, Sherlock?' I ask of him, sternly. He must have identified in my tone of voice the no-nonsense command for an informative answer.

As much as he can, he evades it, none the less. 'What do you think, John?'

It's not a challenge as much as he's trying to ease me to the answer inside these walls. 'Biological warfare', I state calmly.

He nods. 'I suspect so, at least. Mycroft needed an investigator that wasn't compromised, that he knew beyond doubt that he could trust.'

'You.'

'Yes.'

'And why am I here?'

'Because I need your help, John', he tells me sincerely. His eyes are shining in the purplish glow of the lab with an incredible shade of lichen green, intensely gazing at me. 'I don't trust these people, John', he confides. Then, with a lighter comical shrug of the shoulders he adds, dismissively: 'We're in a mad scientist's lair, have you not noticed?'

_**.**_

'Mycroft intercepted a code message sent out of Baskerville. Obviously, he's not able to pinpoint its origin or recipients, but trusts it to be genuine and a highly justified cause for concern', Sherlock finally divulges, as he indulgently takes a seat in one of those shiny examination tables, as if it was nothing more than an ordinary household piece of furniture.

'What did it say?'I ask at once. I rather have practical facts than Holmesian drama at this unsettling location.

'It's of little importance now, since the recipients are sure to know the message has been intercepted. It did suggest a commercial sale, not identifying the product, and that the trade should come across as a theft to this particular laboratory. Hence the assumption that the object of desire is located in here.'

'How can you tell they meant this lab out of the several down here, Sherlock?'

'The security code matches this lab alone.'

'I see.'

I'm frowning heavily as I calculate the implications of such actions taking place. Standing ahead of my friend, with my hands united behind my back, in a stance reminiscent of parade rest. I'm allowing my imagination to flow over the worst case scenarios.

'How can you be sure the rogue scientist didn't take the smuggled goods with him to the outside? Sherlock, our coming in here and throwing everyone out might have just played into their game!'

Sherlock shakes his head briefly, angrily. 'They were all searched, John!' he tells me dismissively. 'You forget that.'

'So what they wanted to sell must still be here', I conclude, more confident.

'Certainly.'

'And we need to identify what it is for Mycroft.'

'Hence the need for a scientist detective', Sherlock states, jumping down from the examination table with an energetic bounce. He then stops short and adds for my benefit: 'A doctor might come in handy too.'

'Yeah, right.' I pretend to play along. This is the Baker Street's duo in a very Sherlockian case.

'We don't know what they intend to sell, John. So we need to analyse this lab and find what it conceals.'

I squint. _The whole thing looks odd to me, if you'd ask me. Not sure I __can__ be of much help here._

'John, focus!' Sherlock snaps at me as he sees me looking round numbly. 'Tell me what you see here that is out of place.'

Bewildered, I hesitate. No, I'm a doctor. This is a biology laboratory. The unmistakable stench of agar agar (a generalist culture media for microorganisms growth) lingering in the air, several incubators aligned on the back wall for the Petri dishes' cultures, Bunsen burners switched off at a long worktop where the inoculations are held. No, that's just general equipment, a step up from every secondary school in the country.

If I was to hide something - say a microbiological strain that was genetically modified to withstand medical treatment - where would I put it? In with the others at the incubators...

As I take my first step forward towards the incubators, a strong decisive hand stops me short. 'Too easy, John. All the samples are counted first thing in the morning and last thing in the evening. Think of a more clever place.'

It'd figure Sherlock was listening in on my silent deductions. He was probably doing it out of a protective streak, given the high level of risk associated with this place.

I look round again, tiredly. There are no displays of personal objects, once again I notice with shock. So, not hidden in a plant pot (no plants here anyway), under a kid's drawing (none of that either) or inside a coffee mug (no food allowed in a lab).

'How big does it need to be?' I ask aloud, trying to visualise it.

'Possibly a small vial. The threat itself is microscopic, of course, but it needs a suspension to keep it alive... and contained.'

I nod, absent-mindedly. Then I smirk. _There._ I found it before Sherlock.

_Well, following Sherlock's lead._

My friend's hand flies in my direction, but misses me by an inch. I think my sudden energy bout of energy took him by surprise as he was studying curiously the entries rolling on the laptop's screen. Choosing to explain later, I go to grab out of the desktop the shabbiest looking notebook, the one that a fellow blogger might keep his records on. This will hold the answers, I'm sure.

I catch the notebook, turn a few pages over and glance through. Sherlock is coming up to meet me at once. I look over to my friend in victory and explain my reasoning: 'No need to sell a disease if you can simply sell the recipe, Sherlock!' Then, with a smirking smile I tilt my head sideways and wave the pen in his direction. 'You like to overcomplicate, Sherlock!' I tell him and click the mechanical pen for emphasis.

Instead of a harmless click we hear a small gas-like discharge from the pen's tip. Both Sherlock and I stare at the pen in my hand. 'Shit', I eloquently mutter, for catharsis' sake alone.

Sherlock closes his eyes shut, going pale. He still vents out: 'A good business man doesn't sell the recipe, but the product! That way he can sell it several times, John!'

His correction falls short of a slap in the face to me. 'It was the pen.' I'm struggling to catch up with the ominous reality settling in. _What have I done?_

Before I can ask in how much trouble I am to my omniscient friend, some sensor in the lab must have been triggered, because a sound alarm goes off, an intermittent orange light erupts from a ceiling fitted bulb and the heavy sound of steel door sliding is audible throughout the whole lab. Sherlock and I glance at each other, then we start running to the wooden door. Instead of the wood and glass door we find metals panels sliding from inside the lateral walls, firmly meeting shut in the middle.

_It's a darn good lockdown._

Not from the race, but I'm quite sure I stopped breathing in the last few seconds. Sherlock, on the other hand, is almost hyperventilating as he takes a couple of lost steps in every direction, knitting his fingers through his messy curls. Seeing him despairing, so outside his usual contention, breaks my last emotional defences and I'm left motionless, stunned, staring at the smooth surfaced strong door.

Then I look down on my hand. My jaw drops at the sight of the pen I picked up, breaking to pieces after its job is done. From within I can see the fragments of a broken thin vial. 'Sherlock, did I just break this?' _Please tell me I didn't, please do something, fix this. _'Did I just release a biological weapon?'

Sherlock is regaining his composure, but he's pale as he answers: 'Apparently so.' There's only a slight tremble to his voice to denounce apprehension over the mysterious genetically enhanced targeting microorganism released. It's only as he finishes his calm sentence that he raises his eyes and in them I find an echo of my inner turmoil. His eyes can't conceal from me his emotion. The light green tones are trembling and bright as he fixes his gaze on mine, empathetic and worried. Afraid for him and for me. I find no hint of blame in that honest innocent gaze, but that can never placate my guilt. Even though this tough predicament is shared equally by the both of us. 'I guess we did', he adds to his speech just then. Using the plural form, including himself. Showing me the support he'd never fail to give me, he is now stronger, heroic. 'You are sure to have been contaminated, John, so close to the release point. I may have just made it clean. In any case, let's not overplay our luck. Let go of it into that thermos bottle there, it should contain it minimally.' I follow his lead at once, glad to see him take control when I'm still so numb. '_Just drop it, John_, let go off that dreadful contraption. Time is of the essence. Our plan is clear. We need to find you an antidote before we leave Baskerville.'

Finally I shake off some of my torpor. 'We're not going at it alone. We have resources. Mycroft can get us a top team of immunologists, the best in the country.' I take my phone off my pocket at once. _Not working. No network. Right._ We're buried deep in a bunker-like building, detached from all civilisation and unbeknown to it. What did I expect? _This will make communication for help slightly more difficult._

'What now?' I look up eagerly to my friend's face, waiting for his plan, that I vow to follow faithfully. Immediately I can read he doesn't have a plan. _Yet._ That's... bad. I close my eyes as a deep shiver runs deep in my body, fully unrelated with this disease I just unleashed on the two of us. 'I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I never meant to... Of course you know I didn't mean to release a modern age plague on us', I mumble, suddenly checking myself. _Get a grip, captain Watson! This is no time to break. Sherlock needs you to keep strong._

'We don't know for sure what it is, John', he insists, soberly. 'We don't know its intended method of dispersion. You may have not been contaminated at all. Go wash your hands, several times!' he orders me, as the only still rational being in this location. I wonder how come I haven't thought of that, as a doctor.

Right. This is likely to be an infectious disease, we need to contain its spreading. If possible, keep it from reaching Sherlock. 'Get us some paper face masks and latex gloves', I order my friend. This is doctor Watson, taking control at last.

He nods sharply and sets off with a jittery energy that betrays his worried state. I watch him leave dutifully, doing his part in our well-oiled team that so often is led by him.

Taking advantage as he has his back towards me, I rub my face with a shaky forearm (keeping myself from using my hands in the last second).

_Oh, Sherlock, what have I done?_

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	112. Chapter 112

_(A/N) __Context:__ John reticently accepts to return to sci-fi Baskerville. While in a weird lab, a mysterious biological disease is unleashed. Part four of __a-few-more-to-go.__ –csf_

* * *

_**. Part Four .**_

I can hardly wrap my head around what happened. I unwillingly unleashed some sort of mutated highly sophisticated plague. Partly because Sherlock didn't let me in on the case earlier. Mostly because of a supposedly inconsequential gesture that turned out being just the opposite. I had just known we were looking for a small vial containing what could be used as a biological weapon when I found it. _Accidently._ And Sherlock wasn't as thrilled with the success as he had thought he would be.

The seemingly innocent gas spread all over my hand. Sherlock happened to be in breathing distance. We still don't know the implications of this spillage. Hopefully _(I really mean it with all my heart)_ it only affected me.

Immediately sirens and alarms blared off. This seems to support the theory that the _thing_ – _deadly virus, or crippling bacteria, or mutagenic DNA strain, I don't know_ – is airborne and was detected at the air extract ducts, equipped with sensitive filters. That would make Sherlock out to be infected as well, so both our prospects are not very favourable.

I don't feel a thing yet, but we've decided to take all precautions.

In an underground laboratory that has been sealed off from the exterior (which is, in itself, a very secretive, military guarded location) we are completely cut off from the outside world. Mycroft Holmes knows us here. He'll get suspicious when we don't come out. _Eventually._ But not as soon as desired. No one will dare defy big brother by messing with Sherlock's investigative process, the one he is so picky about. The orders were clear. Leave Baskerville for Sherlock and I alone. So we could focus on finding the _thing._

_The one we found already. And I smashed. No __hero's __medals for me._

_**.**_

Dingy lit basement far underground, purplish glow to the subdued lights, swirling liquids bubbling away through glass columns and round bottom flasks over Bunsen burners, laptop monitors rolling hundreds and hundreds of mysterious cryptic entries in the background, the shiny cold glint of the stainless steel examination tables. All these features remind me of a modernised Frankenstein silent movie. That makes me the leading freak in the show. Wrapped up in lab coat, latex gloves and paper face mask (no, Sherlock, I fail to see the point in wearing safety goggles), I'm reclined on one of the office chairs with a sleeve rolled up and my arm over the arm rest. Sherlock is fitted with a similar attire as he tries to play nurse and extract some of my blood for analysis.

It's the fifth attempt in a row and I'm convinced he took classes with Molly Hooper at the morgue. So far he's been painfully unsuccessful.

'Give it to me', I ask at last, cursing the basic pedagogy of allowing him to make mistakes so he can learn. This is my arm and I'll need it.

He doubtfully hands me the syringe and I take a deep breath before breaking all deontology rules and doctoring myself. It feels really odd, but soon enough the dark red liquid is finally thinly gushing into the syringe.

'Remember, Sherlock, double your precautions while you analyse my samples. Let's make sure I don't contaminate you. That would be both our worse nightmares. Having you stuck with a potentially deadly disease in here.'

He shakes his head, agitatedly. 'We don't know what was in that vial. Could be that you got yourself a dosage of multivitamin supplements, John.'

I've never felt gladder to hear Sherlock expose his rationality. Only trouble is, this is a small chance in a multitude of scenarios, and I know it. _Wish I could believe his easy hopes._

'Yeah, right!' I go sarcastic although not without a kind smile, 'because they need a big secret lab for that. Oh, well, why don't we turn off the lights to see if I glow in the dark, Sherlock?'

He smirks with me. 'Super-human strength?' he joins me in the plot lines of some comics book.

'Super-soldier? Wouldn't that be a waste on a retired army captain... Sherlock, what was exactly the case that brought us here?'

Stubbornly, Sherlock shakes his head. 'I'll explain in due time', he promises me. '_If_ you got infected.'

I glare at my friend. If this isn't the proper time – _the chances are high that I've got a GM virus hacking its way into my DNA, for instance_ – when will it be? He's insisting on assuring that I have become infected before disclosing the full information he possesses. Only one reason for that. It's _bad_, really _bad_. And he doesn't want to scare me for no good reason.

I smirk silently. _Sherlock is protecting me in his own way._

_**.**_

The entrance door has been bolted shut, there are no windows (we are too far underground anyway), no connective doors to the adjacent labs. That leaves the servicing assesses, as far as I can see it. Inside the walls, under the floor. We'll take whatever escape route we can get. Water? The inlet is narrow and runs down the wall into the taps. Maintenance is done from the outside the lab. Electrics? None the more promising. All the wiring is inbuilt into the cabinets and surface areas. Heating? Frankly, I think there is none. Too many machines operating within an enclosed space, no one will be cold in here. Air ducts? They are fitted with powerful extractors, purifying filters, and less than assessable inside the ceiling. Still, it seems to be the only area where I can be nosey...

'Sherlock, maybe beyond the false ceiling, if we get a step ladder and—'

The stroppy detective waves me off, nose deep in files cabinets. 'Mycroft's people would have thought of that. High security facility, remember?'

I cross my arms in front of me. _Army captain here, remember?_ 'Well, someone needs to try', I tell my lazy friend.

He shakes his head briefly. 'The necessity for earlier escape from this place hasn't yet been confirmed, John. Don't be an alarmist!'

'Alarmist? Sherlock! We've inhaled what might have been a potentially fatal post-modern plague! There is every need!'

He rolls his eyes. 'You're being dramatic, John. _Overly dramatic_', he specifies with an eye-roll.

A small hope blossoms in my chest. 'Do you think Mycroft got us here to follow up on a bluff? Do you think the rogue scientist was actually _double_-double-crossing his buyer?'

Sherlock stills, without looking at me. 'You're the one that goes on and on about brotherly love and family being thicker than water – which by the way makes little scientific sense, given the human's water content of circa 71%! Why are we even comparing viscosities, John?'

I squint at my friend. 'It's _blood_. "Blood is thicker than water", they say.'

'Oh', he admits. 'That is actually scientifically correct, after all', he ponders, as he glances over his shoulder at me.

I squint harder. 'Sherlock... Your brother would use us, if it meant a greater good for the nation, wouldn't he?'

He hums, in what sounds like an agreement. Just like that, crushing my newborn hopes at once. _Sad_. I really wanted to hope._ Too bad having Sherlock as my friend has been a constant exercise of my own powers of rationality._

'We'll get out of here, Sherlock', I promise him. 'Air ducts', I start again. 'So why don't I just go up there in any case and make out if it's a viable way out of this hell hole?'

The detective replies dispassionately: 'Do whatever you feel like, John. I'm just going through these files. Just ...er... fellow scientific curiosity, you know', he alleges.

I drag the closest chair and hop on it. From there I move up the worktop and stretch, trying really hard to reach the ceiling with my fingertips. _Damn, I'm short! _I glance over my shoulder, suspiciously, to my friend. _He's not having a laugh, is he?_ No, he seems genuinely distracted. And he wouldn't keep himself from actually laughing inappropriately, anyway. '...Sherlock?' I call him.

'Busy', he answers me flatly, without even turning.

With the tip of my shoe I move closer to me a thick encyclopaedic volume, hoping to gain a couple of extra inches using it as a platform. Soon I come to discover it's not enough. I look around and grab a couple more volumes, piling them up on top of the first one. I step on all of them and stretch again. _Almost. Maybe if I—_

A sudden wave of nausea and vertigo hits me all of a sudden. In desperation, I grab onto the flat wall, but it's hardly enough. All of a sudden the world is swaying fiercely to my right, and I try, but I can't, come back from it, and then I'm falling, the sound of water whooshing in my ears tells me, it's all unreal, and I'm crashing – oh, lord, I'm crashing – falling down, heavily.

Something breaks my fall before I hit the ground. Instinctively I know it's Sherlock, he has miraculously come to my rescue, once again. But the answers are my only small and insignificant success, as in my disorientation I can't stop myself from rolling over my friend and dragging him down with me. We both hit the ground less than gently, the air sagging out of my lungs with the brute force of the impact. _It could have been far worse, was it not for my friend._

'_John, talk to me!'_

I'm left powerless to fight back on the cold floor, the room is spinning faster and faster.

_'John, why did you hide it from me? You are running a fever and your breath is laboured.'_

Because I wanted to believe it wasn't true, just like you.

_'You are a doctor, you know I need to monitor the development in your condition!'_

I nod. I know he's right.

_'I need to help you, John. I won't let you down', he promises me._

**_._**

**_(Hour Zero)_**

'John, you are shivering. Are... you scared?' There's a hopeful tone to his voice, when he adds: 'I can hardly recall ever seeing you scared, John.'

He did. In this very building. _Baskerville is the stuff nightmares are made of. _'Giant hound...?' I let him in. Then I collect myself and gather: 'It's nothing, Sherlock. It's just cold in here, that's all.'

'John, I need you to be fully honest with me.'

'Look who's talking!' I remark, grumpily.

'John', he scolds me with my given name. Somehow, it just sets me off:

'I'm fine, Sherlock!' I raise my voice. Perhaps I'm being a bit too forceful. Not at all impressed, my friend takes hold of my shoulders in his wiry hands to steer me around. At first I don't get his intentions, but then I see where he leads me to, in order for me to get some rest. _No, Sherlock! _I really don't want to lay down on one of those examination tables, ominously similar to Molly's morgue slabs, only smaller. Figure the socially awkward genius would completely miss out the association that was to me instinctive. Or maybe he even fancies them comfortable for a kip. I'm quite sure he sees in this only a useful makeshift (albeit cold) bed.

'I'll find you a blanket, John', he promises me, in a heartfelt attempt to care for me, thinking that's where my reticence lies. _No, Sherlock, it's not a matter of temperature._

I see him abandon me in that same energetic way and shiver. _When did this become some sort of Halloween parody?_

Anyway, why is this creative thinking affecting me so? I'm an overly familiarised-with-death GP. This shouldn't bother me half as much. Perhaps I'm a bit feverish, I'm forced to accept. If so, this illness has an extremely fast evolution and is one of the most dangerous ones I've ever come across in my entire career.

I need to keep Sherlock under careful watch.

My friend leaves me sat at that odious steel surfaced table, icy cold. In fact, the whole lab feels really chilly. Some of this can be accounted by the extra ventilation the alarmed set off when the vial got broken. Mostly, it must be yet another symptom.

Sherlock looks okay. Healthy. In control. He brings me a fire blanket, strung out of some fire protection kit. It's the best he could get and I accept his precious gift with gratitude. I take it without putting up a fight, and wrap myself in it, trying to distract me of how miserable I'm starting to feel. _Sherlock mustn't know._

'John', he's finally ready to open up about the case and I can tell at once I won't like what he has to say. 'It's a highly sophisticated virus. I'm unaware of the contours of its creation. We must be prepared for high resistance, easy spreading methods and overall good efficiency. Mycroft did not recount what the initial strain was or how the scientists have created it. Genetic cropping of different viruses' strands in order to create a perfect virus is the most likely scenario. It's basically a super-virus, John. And you seem to have been successfully infected.'

I blink silently. _Oh, great. It even has a cool name._ "Super-virus" is one to get stuck in my head, Sherlock.

No. I'm not going to sit here and wait.

I try to push the blanket away and get up at once. No time to strop around. We need to find a way out of our high-tech prison.

The moment I get up, though, my body gives up on me. My legs buckle under my own weight. Sherlock grabs me at once, by instinct or because he anticipated my fragility, stabilising me just before I crash on the floor. His expression is the last thing I take notice as I'm going down. I will never be able to brush it off easily. He looks terrified, even as he helps me back onto the table.

**_._**

**_(Hour Two)_**

After a couple of hour's nap I came to with a startle. Immediately I recognise the purple lab with a queasy sensation in my gut. Am I ever going to be able to turn my back to this place?

_Baskerville is again living up to its reputation._

'Sherlock?' I force myself up, pushing away the crinkling blanket. I need o make sure my friend is okay. His lack of answer is worrying me. 'Sherlock!'

'John?' I finally hear an answer, from somewhere not far, behind me. I turn and find my friend still deeply immersed in his research, brooding over a microscope.

He looks pale. It could be because we hardly had anything to eat since we arrived to this place. Hopefully it's not because he's starting to show the first symptoms of my own terrible affliction.

Again I catch Sherlock trying to disguise a cough bout as if he was clearing his throat. I completely remove the blanket off me and get up. There is heavy concern in my mind while I walk the few meters separating me from my friend.

'Sherlock, I think it's time I evaluate you. Medically, I mean', I tell him in all seriousness.

He shakes off the idea immediately, like a dog shaking off a flea, his curls bouncing back and forth over his damp forehead.

'I'm fine, John. You are the one who's ill.'

'You were exposed to the virus too, Sherlock.'

'I didn't touch the vessel, John. You did.'

'This virus is most likely airborne. You know this.'

'I have no symptoms.'

I sigh; his display of stubbornness is not easing me at all. 'I should be the judge of that, Sherlock. I'm the doctor here.'

'You're a GP, not an immunologist.'

Sighing again, I try to think of an alternative approach to my friend who, in all probability, needs my help. It's noble, his effort to stay strong and find a cure for my ailment (and incidentally a cure for a dangerous virus), but not in detriment of his own health and self-care.

I take a seat by Sherlock's side, facing the table and the microscope where he studies the red smeared slides with all his attention. It's a homely moment, where we share a quiet proximity, brewing over a case. If it weren't for these times' dark implications to the case, we could be enjoying ourselves.

'Sherlock...' I start softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. Even without planning to assess him, I can sense the warm dampness of his shirt, a quickness to his heart rate and a slight flush at his cheeks. 'Sherlock, you have it too', I stat the medically obvious.

He nods sharply, as the only acquiescence over his illness and his knowledge of it. 'I'm okay', he says out loud.

'I'm the doctor here', I repeat, sternly.

Sherlock coughs slightly, onto his other side, and soon refocuses on the microscope's objectives. 'You're also the soldier in here', he points out logically. 'I need you to think of a way out of here, John. No need for acrobatics without me, though. And I'll call you if I find that I need an assistant.' _He means we'll both keep each other in check._ 'When I find a cure, John, there's no guarantee I'll find the meds I need in here, or the chemicals to produce it. You need to find a way out. a door, a phone, an internet enabled computer, whatever.'

I nod respectfully, compromising myself to find results I can't really guarantee. No-one will come in to save us. We need to forge our own success by being the great team we are so naturally. We need to escape this nightmarish place _asap_.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	113. Chapter 113

_(A/N) Context: John reticently accepts to return to sci-fi Baskerville. While in a weird lab, a mysterious biological disease is unleashed. Part five of when-did-this-become-so-long?_

_I promise a happy-sort of ending, and that I need to have proper immunology lessons because I'm quite sure little of this is scientifically accurate. It was a choice made for plot's sake. If anyone cares to review me correct, I'd be most appreciative. –csf_

* * *

_**. Part Five .**_

_**.**_

_**(Hour Three)**_

Useless protective measures shed aside – such as the lab coat and latex gloves – Sherlock and I are determined to support each other during our quest to make it outside. Locked in a high security governmental facility with our own consent, we didn't expect to be the victims of an unknown plague.

Well, not so unknown now. Sherlock has found some paper trail, encrypted in the entries rolling on the laptop screen. He says the DNA sequences from the isolated portions of human chromosomes have been virtually combined with viral strands. He's currently studying with virus were used, much like a gourmet chef would taste a Michelin starred restaurant's plate and try to guess the ingredients.

_It keeps my friend busy._

As for me, I'm stubbornly searching for a way out of this mess I created. After all, it's my responsibility and I mustn't shy away from the evident fact that I managed to infect myself and most possibly Sherlock as well.

'Stop it', Sherlock mutters from across the main lab area. I look over to my friend, where the purplish lamplight gives new highlights to his raven black hair. He's looming over one of the laptops, he seems to have cracked its password. _Well, he does have quite some practise in doing that, doesn't he?_

'What d'ya mean?' I ask him, the fever mumbling my speech somewhat.

'We need to focus on getting out of here, not on what happened.' Sherlock's words were pronounced full of rationality, and fail to ease me as much as intended.

He's right, of course he is. _None of my guilt will get me far._

'Yeah', I mutter, just so he knows I heard him. _Can't really erase my big mistake, can it?_

'Honestly, John, you keep astonishing me', he adds mysteriously then, a warmer tone carries his voice through the lab.

'Why?' _Are you astonished I managed to mess up so badly, is that it?_

'It's obvious, John!' he answers me short-tempered. 'Because you always forgive, it's an essential trait of your nature.'

That doesn't make sense. Does it? No, it's the other way around..._ Why is he saying this? Does he feel guilty as well?_

'Sherlock, I'm sorry I broke the vial and release a mythical plague on us.' _There._ Said it at last. Even if it can't change the outcome.

'John, I'm sorry I brought you along to this place', he responds with a quiet monotone voice, but I know he means it. He really feels guilty, and admitting it is a rarity in Sherlock's world. He's trying to keep himself focused and distant, keeping it together for both our sakes.

He must know I'd never dream of blaming him for allowing me to join his work. 'No, Sherlock, don't think that—'

'Can we move on?' he cuts me short, jittery, briskly.

I nod sharply. 'Yes, of course.'

_Anyway, I wouldn't have chosen to be stuck in a high level security nightmare with anyone else._

_**.**_

_**(Hour Seven)**_

I seem to have progressed further along in the course of this disease than Sherlock. Core body temperature has recently spiked, with the expected nausea, shivers and confusion, but I'm keeping steady in my post. I'm a doctor and I need to stay strong in order to keep my friend and patient under check. A sudden change of status is still not out of the table for Sherlock. Although exposure in him seemed to be minimal as far as the vial's contents, the virus' airborne capacity for propagation is still a definite possibility.

I've taken a couple of minutes to again register all my symptoms and their progression in this unknown disease. Hopefully this data can be used to heal us, in the event that the contagious diseases centre people get here in time. If they don't, then these notes can help the professionals contain it to this lab. Should it be diffused to the outside and spread beyond these controlled facilities, and sterilised air flow, it might become incontrollable. Forget biological welfare, the viability of this virus outside a human host is far too high. That, alongside a high half-life period in which it can multiply and infect other hosts – this could be a large scale plague commencing right here.

With Sherlock sat behind the high resolution electronic microscope, wrapped in the blanket, this may still be called the Holmes' plague. _Sherlock wouldn't like that, though._

He does it all for science, not recognition.

This time he also does it to save our lives.

_**.**_

_**(Hour Eight)**_

Sherlock is, for once, making _me_ tea. Of course he's going at it in his own fashion. Over a lit Bunsen burner. He could have used a hot plate, but I suppose he wanted to go at it old-school.

I take advantage of my friend's distraction to glance over the papers he has just found. The unfolded, slightly crumpled up pages of printed A4 paper lay out a desperate portrait of the threat I'm facing.

Test subjects exhibit only mild symptoms at first, which can easily be mistaken for the flu. This leads to having the symptoms being written off by the carriers of the virus, continuing their day. Even if medically assessed, misdiagnosis are highly likely, I would guess, as a doctor myself. The patient's condition degrades fast till he's rendered useless and fever ridden. From that inertia onwards it's very fast. The whole thing doesn't seem to take more than 16 hours from the point where the symptoms start showing. And no antidote has ever been designed or identified for this flash-virus nightmare.

_We're halfway already, with no end in sight._

Sherlock is coming back now. One glance at me and he recognises the papers I hold in my hand. His hurt expression betrays the certainty that he didn't count on having me know about these reports. He'd have rather kept me in the dark, blissfully unaware.

We share a long heavy look, pregnant with words we won't mutter in the silence between us.

_**.**_

_**(Hour Eleven)**_

The test subject, here referred to as JD **[for "John Doe", to minimise all that you'll need to redact in here, big brother Holmes]**, has been exposed to the virus four hours ago. Since then, an array of symptoms has been noted, becoming more pronounced over time. J— has been tested **[see physical assessment pages attached]** every two hours for the results of the infection. They include pronounced muscular fatigue, delayed reaction time, faster heart rate, slightly laboured breathing, and overall weakened state. These symptoms are likely consequence of the feverish condition, accompanied by nausea and inertia; all common Influenza symptoms. No particular symptom particular to this disease has yet been identified. **[Your brother told me I "look green, but not literally", so I'm discounting that. I'll assume your cctv footage of this laboratory is recording this for posterity in full colour, so you'll be able to verify your brother's sass for yourself.]** Use of this unnamed virus **[Your brother says you wouldn't dare, given your shared family name]** in a public space for contamination of the civilian population is, therefore, a likely possibility to be monitored. **[I suspect you knew this already, and that's why you sent us here. To investigate, I mean, not to be actual test subjects.]** John Doe is an active adult male with no chronic ailments that may speed up the infectious process. **[Except for one bust shoulder, but that doesn't count, so I'll leave out the reports on the bloody rheumatic pain.]** Careful consideration must be paid to the youth, elders and people with known chronic states. **[Just contain this virus before it gets out there, please. Test Subject Two is trying to come up with a cure on his own, despite his growing symptoms that ascertain he was infected too. He's doing his best and I have all the faith in him, I just fear he may not have enough time. And if it comes to that you should know, Mycroft, that Sherlock always—**

The notebook is yanked out of my hands forcefully by a fully irate Sherlock, sweat beading on his forehead and dark feverish eyes shining. 'You wrote _his_ name, John! I saw it very clearly in the spiky pattern of your higher case Ms, John! Have you forgotten already the sensitive nature of this mission?' he berates me. In the same jittery energy he snaps the notebook onto a stainless steel bowl, grabs a jar from the shelf and drops colourless liquid over the paper with a vindictive streak. Immediately it starts fuming and forming a singed flameless burnt hole where it got splashed. The vapour emerging is bitter and it makes me cough at once.

'High concentration acid burn?' I realise, facing away and fighting the urge to cough more as the sickly smell gnaws at the back of my throat.

'Yes!' Sherlock growls back at me for the sake of accuracy, before punching on the extracting ventilation system in the room.

'I wrote your brother's name and you chemically burnt the page, Sherlock!' I stat, settling into a mild shock, running a hair through my disarrayed hair, sweat spiking it into thick clumps.

'Yes', he admits proudly, resuming his usual calm, must faster than I can. 'We've come here with a mission, John. There's no giving up and asking for help.'

My first impression is that he's feverish. But then again, he's Sherlock. Even fever-ridden he's likely to beat any healthy man in a chess game, for instance. Therefore I find myself frowning, confused. 'Ask for help?' I quote him. In front of me, Sherlock coughs due to the chemical smell but he still manages to make it sound derisive. 'Because I wrote Mycroft's name? The cctv cameras, is that it? You think...' I get it at last, 'that if worse come to be, we can get someone's attention through the cameras, by using Mycroft's name to pierce through the security layers.'

Sherlock gazes back at me, honest sadness in his features. 'No, John. This isn't a live feed. I thought... perhaps it was hasty of me... I thought you wanted to give Mycroft reassuring words about me. It's your nature. You are a doctor, you always care about patients and their families. But the Holmes family is different, John. I wish you'd understand that. No messages, John. They'd be regarded as weakness.'

I cross my arms in front of me.

'Well, that served _me_ right during your Absence, after Reichenbach. I particularly _loved_ your silence every time I visited your empty grave!' I can't help it; I'm sweaty, shaky and pretty pissed off now. Usually I'd be able to brush this off, but right now screaming is the only thing I can do to keep me from punching him.

Sherlock is no more reasonable than I am. 'That, again?' he protests as he raises his arms in exasperation. 'I told you I was sorry, can't you just leave it?'

He stepped over the line, now. Angrily, I shove him off my face, half-heartedly, but stiffly enough that he'll step aside so I can walk a straight line to the end of the lab.

'Don't go far, doctor! You're infected too, holiness is not a known antidote!' he yells after me, just before I shove a chair aside with a loud crash; governmental property be damned.

_**.**_

_**(Hour Eleven, half past)**_

My damp shirt is the only barrier that keeps my back and arms from sticking to the fake leather cover spread on the medieval examination table. I've come to lay down for a few minutes after my argument with Sherlock. instead of recuperating my strengths, I've come to find out that I feel more queasy when I'm closer to the horizontal, and my headache has exponentially increased. Still I'm taking cover from this hellish nightmare in this uncomfortable doctor / mad scientist's piece of furniture.

'...John?'

I startle at my friend's quiet caring voice, peeking around the shelves unit, calling me softly. His lichen green eyes are tainted with concern as he takes me in with a careful look.

'What is it, Sherlock?' I ask, holding no grudge. He seems relieved by that.

I won't even deny my mission was an active one, to find the exit to this bunker. I've been caught resting in spite of my orders, there's no denying it. I push myself up enough to rest on my elbows. The reality's shifting movement bursts new pain in my head, and I flinch.

Sherlock presses his lips thinner, before telling me: 'Got you some medication for your headache, John.'

Gratefulness washes over me and I smile. He smiles back reflexively. 'Where did it come from, Sherlock? Are there other medicines where you found that?'

He comes closer at last, and stops at my side with a beaker full of cloudy water. 'Didn't find it at all, John. I synthesised it myself. Acetylsalicylic acid. Every kid with science lessons at school should be able to do it. It's basic stuff.'

I huff, amused. Sherlock's schooling must have had its own set of rules when it came to science.

'What is the purity of this?' I ask. 'Do I want to know?'

He shrugs. 'It's high, although it hardly matters now. You're past the point where the medicine can harm you more than the illness, John.'

I gulp drily, and it's not because of the fever that rattles my system.

'And you, Sherlock?' I worry, opening my eyes wide.

'Already had some.' _Damn, this is bad._ This is admission that he's badly affected too. He adds, then: 'Had to prove it was safe for consumption.'

_Yeah, right_; I don't buy into that excuse. I grab the beaker and drink the contents of the peace offering in one go.

_We're stuck together through thick and thin._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	114. Chapter 114

_(A/N) Context: John reticently accepts to return to sci-fi Baskerville. While in a weird lab, a mysterious biological disease is unleashed. Part six of I-promised-a-happy-ending; aka, one more to go after this (and I'll try to post it very soon). Also, apologies for all these insane scientific inaccuracies. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part Six .**_

_**.**_

_**(Hour Twelve)**_

'No!, No, no, no, no!'

My friend's altered voice shouts across the lab, stirring me awake. Somehow I seem to have nodded off over the corner desk. Now I'm the more confused as I hear my friend's insistent displays of anger and frustration.

'What is it, Sherlock?' I ask him, as calmly as I can.

In one of his old characteristic bouts of energy, utterly unexplained in his ongoing condition, he paces the room and gestures wildly. He's not making too much sense, though, much in the least for a genius. He starts reporting: 'I found the answer, but it's not enough, John!'

'I see.' _No, I don't._

He takes pity of my confusion, at last. 'I can make an antidote, John!' he says angrily. Relief washes over me. I'm smiling in praise, as he adds: 'I found the answer, but I won't be able to do it, John!' What? Why not? I frown, holding my breath hardly without realising. He adds then: 'I need to create a peptide solution on order to assure the antidote is viable. Then I need to precipitate the solution to flush out the poisonous by-products these microorganisms will be creating at the same time they create the antidote. So, not only it's a long process, now I come to the cupboard and what do I get?' he gestures high and wide in the air. 'I don't have enough peptide because the jar is half-empty!'

I blink. It's too much to take in on one go.

'Sherlock, why don't you have a seat and repeat that calmly?'

'Can't you hear me? There is no time! You need to listen to me', he hisses out as instructions. 'You need to do what I tell you, because you are the one having the antidote.'

'What?' I bark back, reflexively.

'Listen!' he insists with an eye roll. 'You are having the antidote, John.'

'Why?'

'It's not enough to the both of us. And you are less affected than me at this point. My work to create the antidote is not done yet. It takes time, too much time. So I may not be awake when it's done. Certainly doesn't look like it from this illness' progression. So, John, I need you to finish my job. There will be a solution precipitating. The antidote is the filtrate. You'll need to collect it and inject into you. Luckily you have a way with syringes, so you'll be able to do it to yourself.'

'And you?' I ask in a tight whisper.

'I'll wait for the rescue team, John. Meanwhile, either you find a way out or, in any case, they should be coming for us. My brother, and even Lestrade, should be finding our absence strange by now. No doubt they'll come. You'll give them my notes so they can make more antidote. Do you understand all of that, John?'

_Of course I understand, but—_

He smiles, relieved, as he takes the nearest chair. He looks all drained of his energy, now. I worry deeply about my friend, hurrying to reach him and support his unstable frame. He's shaking now, on top of a fever spike. He's also losing consciousness, beyond his control.

'Sherlock, talk to me... say something, Sherlock!'

It's useless, I realise with a gut twist.

As I settle my friend to a comfortable rest – his cold shivers and high fever so apparent now that I can't understand how he minimised it for so long to take care of me – I'm struck by the desolate nature of our predicament. A raging virus is hacking away at our systems, prisoners from some automatic health and safety guidelines' lockdown, no communication possible with the outside world.

There was a calm tension while Sherlock Holmes, a certified genius, fought our way out of here. He seems to have hit upon the answer, but now I can't get through to him.

I'm alone and without resources. It's doubtful I can arrive myself at the most needed answers, in half the time Sherlock himself took to get there.

It's not looking good. Yet I can't give up. Ever. My friend's life depends on it. This is my mission and I won't let exhaustion or fever slow me down.

_**.**_

_**(Hour Fifteen)**_

I'm fretting over my friend's fever ridden body. He looks pale and clammy, inertia is prostrating him. It's poignant to watch him so miserable, so lost of his usual vigour. Even when Sherlock is one of his dark moods, and sulks his day away for a good case, there's a concealed vibrancy under the trembling touch of his fingertips, a steady glint in his boyish annoyed look, a dramatic huff in his languid hopeless gestures. The Sherlock I see now, trapped in this science lab and infected with a super virus, is anything but that. The listless fingers falling over the edge of the examination table, I laid the blanket on him in the hope of comforting him somewhat. I've been rousing my patient every so often, to ensure he ingests liquids and to overall assess his state. In those times, he doesn't fully regain consciousness, but always, gently and compliantly, he follows my lead. It touches me to see the blind trust he places in me, even at this weakened state. The so-called sociopath, used to shutting off the rest of the world with acidic remarks and crisp shows of brilliancy will calmly answer me. When I ask him how he feels he'll detail it explicitly like only a rational man could do to his doctor. "Core body temperature remains stable at a high mark, cold extremities, sore throat and episodically detaching from consciousness" he'd recite, emotionless, as if dictating the notes I'd write down as a doctor. But I know it's more than that. His trust encompasses more than just my professional skills. Sherlock allows me to touch him. Usually he hates that; any meaningless human contact is beneath his cold reasoning mind. He gently allows me to probe, sense, analyse his fever, reflexes, responses, when he's at this vulnerable state. He hums quietly and closes his eyes, tranquil, as he avoids doing whenever I'm further away.

I think he's always trying to keep an eye on me, except in those moments when I'm in full contact with him, and he knows I'm alright because he can feel me, my touch, my movements. Often he relaxes then, eyes closed, sometimes he even falls asleep, beaten by exhaustion.

He is now too weak to remain awake for long periods of time. When I'm assessing him he surrenders and transfers to me this joint mission of looking after each other. I'll always do that for him; keep an eye out, protect him if he needs.

I'll do that for as long as I can keep going. The same virus that is bringing down the great Sherlock Holmes is eroding my strengths as well.

I'm dizzy and shivering in cold while paradoxically my body is burning up from the fever. But nothing can deter me from my mission. I won't give up. Sherlock needs me, so I need to keep strong.

_For my friend._

_**.**_

_**(Hour Sixteen)**_

Can't wait any longer for the serum to precipitate. The fluid looks clearer and the poisonous by-products within should be minimal. Any other time I'd say this kitchen chemistry was reckless and damaging. But I must face the fact that I don't trust myself much longer. My symptoms are now up to speed with Sherlock's as he experienced his collapse. There's a serious and realistic risk that if I delay this treatment any longer I won't be conscious to apply it. He'll get a headache, perhaps, but he'll live. _Hopefully he can forgive me._

Sherlock must live.

The world is not ready to lose him. Again.

May my actions and choices be a legacy of life for my friend and most worthy human being.

There is only enough material to create half the dosage of antidote we both require. That is to say, only one of us can be saved. This could be a touchy dilemma in the making. Only it needn't be.

Out of the two of us, Sherlock is the one to get the antidote. It's simple, the way I see it. He's a genius, a man the world needs. He deserves it, for all the times he saved me. I'll gladly give myself up for him. He's my good friend and I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's not a selfless decision. It's the epitome of rationality and Sherlock is sure to appreciate it. Sherlock Holmes is needed. I'm surplus. Sure I'll be missed, but... I've had a good life. Sherlock still has so much more to live.

_**.**_

_**(Hour Sixteen, half past)**_

I'm sitting by my friend's side. It's the only natural place to find doctor John H. Watson. Still the silence is bothering me. I start speaking, not even sure about what or to whom, I just want to fill the uncomfortable silence and feel that I'm not so alone. _The sound of a human voice can do that, even if it's mine._

'Why did you bring me here, Sherlock? After the last time, why insist that I needed to come with you to this nightmare?'

I lower my voice to mere whisper then, because I don't really want my friend to hear my next words, proffered to him:

'I know enough about nightmares, and night terrors, and even extreme fear, the kind you get in panic attacks. To bring a messed up soldier like me into this place was risking it as it was. So I guess that means you knew I would be okay so long as you were with me to monitor me. To distract, support, or otherwise be my friend. And I trusted you for that. I always will, Sherlock.' I brush a damp errant stand of hair from his forehead, hoping to bring my friend some comfort. It's not much, but it's what I can give him right now. 'I came, kicking and screaming, but I came along. I know you could appreciate that. Whatever fears I felt, you were experiencing them as well, in a more silent, stubborn, fashion.' I smirk to that quiet demonstration of my friend's strength and need to prove he's the best, above all human fragilities. 'You insisted I came along. You saw me falter and mocked it like a brother, but never abandoned me or put me down about it. Sherlock...' _Why can't I get my words out straight?_

I take a deep breath, studying every frown line in my great friend's face. 'I know why you insisted I came along. It wasn't because of my doctor skills, or my army training. You wanted me here because you were scared yourself and you didn't want to be alone. So I don't want to leave you alone.' It's easy, the way I see it. 'Only this time I won't be able to help it. You see, Sherlock... No matter your genius, you were limited from the start. There is only a small quantity of antidote. You meant it for me, supposedly so I can find us a way out. _I know better. _Even if I found a way out through the vents, we are now too weak to pull through – not to mention you are unconscious. You see, I can't do it anymore. I've been fighting, fought all my life, Sherlock. Now I can't do this. I can't leave you behind to save my sorry self. I lived a long and happy life. _Well, isn't that what we are supposed to say?_ But listen, I've pushed through without you before. For two years. I've done that and it took away part of who I am. I can't do it all over again. This time I have too little left of myself, and it'd just take too much of what's left. But you, Sherlock! _The world still needs you._ And you need their puzzles, their pleads, their appreciation. I know you'll do great.' I give my unconscious friend a warm smile, full of trust. I only break it to take one long deep, nauseated breath. 'You asked me to take the antidote, Sherlock. I won't. I'm sorry you aren't listening and you can't scream at me. But – _after_. After the hurt is gone. You'll know it's for the best when that time comes. Even if you still hate me then, I'm okay with that, if you'll just _live_. After all, who are you to complain? I'm doing what you once were prepared to do to me, had your plan gone wrong. _And I'm okay with that_.' I realise I'm smiling again. My hand reaches out to his pale damp face and I indulge in a slight caress along the jaw line, up to that sharp cheekbone. _I'm sorry for how much this will pain you, Sherlock. I hope you can understand. I doubt you can forgive me, though, but that's okay. _With numb fingers I reach out for the conical flask full of a purplish colour solution and a syringe. There's a lack of steadiness and control in my fingers that I regret, at this solemn moment, like my body's betrayal of my core decision to protect Sherlock. 'You'll see. Mycroft will come in time, Sherlock. You just need to hang on a bit longer. You'll be okay, Sherlock.'

Miraculously, my fingers play the memory based gesture with fluidity, as I perform the most important task of my life – my legacy.

Rebelliously, I'm pumping all of the antidote into the sick body of my friend. I do it in my best intentions. _A gift of life._ He stirs minimally as I remove the needle, but never regains conscience. With a tinge of sadness I realise he won't be able to hear me say goodbye.

I also realise I don't need to say it out loud. He'll have known all I meant to say when he wakes up, cured.

I'm smiling as I push myself straight. This is one last thing I can do for my friend. _I can go away._ He doesn't need to recover to find me—

I stumble away, in a precarious equilibrium.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	115. Chapter 115

_(A/N) Context: John reticently accepts to return to sci-fi Baskerville. While in a weird lab, a mysterious biological disease is unleashed. Part six of finally-the-last-one! Also, marking the return of the all-purpose throw-away character "Chandler". -csf_

* * *

_**. Part Seven / Ending .**_

_**.**_

_**(Hour Seventeen)**_

I wake up under brutal coercion. Someone is ruefully shaking me by the shoulders and shouting my name. Not Sherlock, though. A familiar voice I can't quite place, but that doesn't belong to this nightmare.

'_I found him! He was hiding under a desk, a few feet away from Sherlock! Get some more paramedics in here! ...John?! I need you to stay awake, John! Stay awake!'_

Suddenly I'm manhandled out of my secure location and into a cold white hard surface. The familiar smell of hospital grade disinfectant only adds to my confusion. _'John, stay with me! ...How's Sherlock? ...Shit! Here, call his name, his name is John! Hang in there, mate, I'll be right back! Sherlock needs me.'_

I had opened the tiniest crack to my eyes, but now I just sigh and let go again. They have Sherlock, that's all that matters.

_**.**_

_**(Over 24 hours)**_

'That's not nice, young man! Frightening us like that!'

Those sweet caring words that float into my consciousness are marred with reproach. I'm not quite awake when I realise I missed the sound of that voice. It reminds me of home. _Mrs Hudson!_ That's right. _No, it's all wrong._ Mrs Hudson is here, yes, but 221B is not my home. It's _Sherlock's_. And he was sick, and locked up in Baskerville. And she knows, she must know if she came here. She must be angry with me. She must think I'm scum, to let Sherlock hurt like this. I can't face her. _I'm so ashamed._

The constant beeping of some electronic machine nearby accelerates. I just want to roll my head away from the noise, hide and sleep.

_Mrs Hudson hates me. And Sherlock must know I'm dead by now, so he must hate me too._

_I was just a washed-up soldier with no choice._

'Shhh... It's okay, John', her voice is soft and motherly now. 'It's all fine now. You can come back now. Everything has been fixed. There's nothing wrong with you or Sherlock anymore.'

Gentle warmth spreads over my hand, soothing and caring. It puzzles me, because it's just not right.

'I promise it's all okay now, John. Open your eyes for me, dear.'

_No._ I don't want to see the destruction I left in my wake. I'm a soldier, that's what I do. I destroy everything I care about. Now I've destroyed myself by waking up. There's nothing left of me without my friend by my side.

'Go on, open your eyes. Sherlock is waiting to see you with your eyes open, dear.'

_Does she not know I ruin everything I touch?_

'John, Sherlock is worried about you. He's talking nonsense, saying you should have taken the whole antidote like you were supposed to, instead of taking the half he didn't take.'

_Antidote?_ No, I gave Sherlock the antidote. _Didn't I? I meant to._ Was I too sick to do it?

Confused, I roll my damp forehead closer to the cold pillow.

'He's becoming agitated, ma'am. We'll need you to step outside for a bit', a man says, nearby.

'I'm not going anywhere, young man! I'm not leaving any of my boys alone! Family is all we've got in the end!'

'You are not this man's next of kin, ma'am', the man's voice returns, flat.

'I beg your pardon? I'll have you know this man is a war hero and he was sent home wounded all alone. I'll make sure he never recuperates alone again. And the same goes for the skinny one. He's like a son to me, and I won't move an inch before they wake up. If you try anything with that nice big man from security with an aunt in Florida not only will he not cooperate with you if he really wants to know the best dinners in town, God help me – I'll call Mr Holmes myself and make him come here at once!'

'Ma'am!'

'You may call me "Mrs H", and be a dear and get Sherlock a tea. He's looking very tired and he won't sleep till he sees John awake. And John is being pig-headed...'

'You heard the lady, John', another voice, only too well known, concurs. _Sherlock?_

I blurredly open my eyes a tiny bit, trying to find my friend. Immediately the warmth enveloping my hand tightens tenderly. I rake the foreign arm with my eyes till I recognise Mrs Hudson. She looks troubled and relieved all at once. Then she looks over onto her side, and instinctively I do the same, trying to find the source of her agitation. There I find none other than my mad friend, smirking from a twin hospital bed, with an amused twinkle in his eyes. _Sherlock._

How did he make it? Or better yet, how did I?

He must read the confusion in my expression because he rolls his eyes, too dramatically for me to take him seriously, and tells me: 'I asked you to take the serum and save yourself, John. I meant it. But I was sure you wouldn't do it. You _care_ too much. You are a doctor, you give life. So I had to make sure to save you as you would undoubtedly save me. Help was on the way, but it'd take some time yet. So the only way I could make sure to save you was to half the antidote. When you weren't paying attention I divided it into two similar portions. I kept one in plain sight. Of course I couldn't tell you I was about to risk so much when half the portion was not enough, but what else could I do? I left you _your_ half and begged you to take it. Had you done as instructed, you'd have taken half the quantity, which would hopefully ensure you'd pull through till help arrived. I left, of course, notes to be found, stating the other half was hidden, needed to be retrieved and administered to _you_. Again, had you done what I required, the second half was still timely and just what _you_ needed. But I didn't really believe that you wouldn't want to benefit me. I knew I had to trick you, because I had no energy left to argue with you. Like Mrs H said, you can be quite pig-headed. Of course, I knew you'd not think of cheating. You are far too honest. You'd consider handing me all of the life saving liquid. I really could have none of that. So, what you actually did, John, was inject me with half the antidote I made. I was worse off than you and the antidote's effect perked me up enough that when help arrived at last I could direct them to the other half, I had hidden, and it could be used to save you. Anyway, that's what my notes told them to do. Protect you rather than me. I don't regret the calculated risk... John, I do not intend to be alone. I need... a blogger.'

'Sherlock', Mrs Hudson cuts him off, frowning.

He rolls his eyes, petulant, but with a warm tone to his gaze between us. 'Fine, I need _a friend_, and for you to save my life every other day, and make me tea, and make sure I eat, because Mrs Hudson is getting rather tired of doing that, or so she keeps telling me, and no one but you will care enough to do that when she doesn't, John.' And to the old lady, with a grumpiness he doesn't really mean he asks 'Is that better?' and finishes by arching his eyebrows in petulance.

It makes me giggle.

I don't quite giggle, but the hiccup in my shallow breaths is caught at once by the pair. Mrs Hudson squeezes my hand again and Sherlock softens his expression at once.

'You are an idiot, John', he tells me, half-heartedly, 'if you thought you could fool me.'

I gulp drily and muster my voice to tell him: 'I wanted you to have the antidote, Sherlock. I don't regret it.'

His gaze clouds over. 'I know', he whispers. 'That's what I couldn't have. You don't seem to know how important you are. I guess, if you did, you wouldn't be the same John that puts up with me.'

That makes little sense. I shake my head slowly, sleepiness washing over me along with gratitude. 'Thanks for letting me come along, Sherlock.'

As I'm falling under the spell of the medication I can still hear him say: 'Sleep well, John. We are going home soon.'

_**.**_

_**(Over 48 hours)**_

'That was a very irrational thing for you to do, Sherlock', he glances sharply at me, but won't protest. At least not yet. He's been tidying up his stuff in the weekend bag, in advance from the time we're allowed to leave the hospital. It'd figure the only time I'd catch him actually being tidy it'd be for the sake of breaking the rules. The doctors haven't told him, or me, that we're allowed to leave our beds in the private hospital room. In fact, they want to keep us in observation for secondary symptoms for as long as possible.

I guess we'll have to escape this secondary prison before we're medically discharged.

Meanwhile, I watch Sherlock squirm under the pertinence of my remark from my comfortable bed.

'Half the antidote?' he catches up easily. 'Of course it was the rational thing to do. It gave us both some needed extra time.'

I shake my head calmly. 'The world needs you, Sherlock.'

'And you', he replies at once, pretending it to be a light-hearted statement none the less. This is a conversation he's not comfortable with.

'That was sentiment, Sherlock', I let him know, just for the sake of it.

'Hardly, John. I was worse off so I got the first batch of antidote, before you got yours. That denies _sentiment_. That was self-preservation.'

I smirk caringly. This is yet another kindness gesture, as he tries to convince me he wasn't a hero at all. In other words, vacating that position for me.

Finally I square my jaw and stand up straighter, sitting up in the hospital bed. 'I meant what I chose, Sherlock.'

He finally faces me straight on before he eases my mind: 'I know, John. _Don't ever do that again._'

'You are a arrogant sod, so sure I was going to chose to save your sorry—'

'John!' he reproaches me. 'I seem to know you well enough to know you wouldn't deny your nature and who you are. I knew you'd try to protect others despite yourself. Especially when it comes to me, you have a soft spot and are ready to break explicit directions.'

I glare at my friend. 'Soft spot?' I repeat, outraged. _Back at you, my friend. You could have easily saved only yourself at the underground Baskerville labs; if Sentiment is not a factor, them morality ceases to matter. You had no reason to protect me, other than Sentiment._

He just nods quietly, maintaining his childish remarks. Then, to help me along, he changes the subject:

'Mycroft caught the rogue scientist in the end. A certain doctor Chandler, PhD. Apparently he got tired of working to the government and wanted out.'

I share a heavy look with Sherlock. 'Does Mycroft ever wonders why?'

'Of course. My brother assures me Baskerville is a top facility all scientists would be proud to work at, having their work recognised and enabled beyond the boundaries society imposes.'

'I heard all that crap before. They are still virtual prisoners.'

Sherlock shakes his head. 'A fact both Mycroft and his battery of annual check-ups negligently failed to notice. Safety procedures will be placed into effect, and Chandler is going to trial for high treason, and of course the GM virus has been completely destroyed so no one else will need to suffer with it. A fact, I'm sure, you'll greatly appreciate.'

I nod, expecting as much. With a longer breath I let my eye lids drop further. It's then that I hear my friend calling me softly: 'John. I'll pack your things as well. When you wake up you will be going home. Mrs Hudson can't wait to have us back at 221B. I must say I rather agree with her.'

_Home. _I fall deeper asleep with a soft smile.

_**.**_

_**(Over 72 hours)**_

'John, are you sure the doctor told you you could do all that?' Greg's worries are born out of friendship. _No need, though. I'm still not perfect, but I'm getting there fast._

'You can't keep John from his tea', Sherlock comments cheekily as he carefully monitors me from his armchair, across 221B. _Wether to check my health or to see what I find so fascinating iI tea, I can't tell._

'Well, after what you two went through...' Greg sympathises at once. I still sense that I could be plastering the walls or knitting a scarf (not that I know how to knit!) and he'd find it natural. _No, Greg. I'm a soldier. I'm used to tough situations. It was nothing much._ I shrug to myself, and toughen up.

'John...' Sherlock slowly reproaches me, as if had just heard my thoughts. _One day he might even convince me I mutter them out loud, or lip-sinc them, or that I was tapping my fingers in morse code while waiting for the kettle to boil. For now, I'm quite sure that didn't happen._

Greg starts over: 'We never talk about these things. Maybe today we should.' I notice the DI is using the fatherly advise tone of voice he usually reserves for Sherlock on the both of us.

'What things?' I'm not making his lecture any easier.

'You and Sherlock almost dying for a case. It's hardly the first time.'

Sherlock unhelpfully contributes: 'That was unplanned.'

I smile to my friend. _I know._

Greg is motivated to go on: 'When I realised none of you had been heard from after arriving at Baskerville, I got worried. I heard enough about Baskerville's secret facilities to know at once something was wrong. Getting that message to the only person with enough power to help me was quite a challenge.'

'My brother', Sherlock recognises with a comical snarl.

'John, when we managed to unseal that lab, we found Sherlock easy enough.'

I glance at my friend, grabbing tea mugs for everyone. _This is definitely a conversation to have with a tea by our side. _'Did you regain consciousness then?' I ask him. Sherlock quietly shakes his head. I sense some dampness in his lichen green eyes, but I dismiss it because we are both so tired.

Again Greg lets us know, with a weary glance at our silent conversations, most of which must be too mysterious to the DI: 'He was out cold. The paramedics got to work on him at once. I got them Sherlock's notes and they communicated ahead to get more antidote made.'

I smile. 'That went well. You came in the nick of time too. Thanks, mate.' _How do I use words to properly thank him for missing us? Had he not, we may still be stuck at the purple lab._ I shiver, without being able to help myself.

'Finding you was the real trouble, John.'

'I remember that', I cut in before he can make Sherlock wonder why did I hide, and what terrible sight I was trying to keep him from. _Of course Molly might one day let him in on my autopsy, I wouldn't be too surprised there._ I twist my mouth and clear my throat. _Time for happier thoughts._

'I hope you understand how lucky you were, John. You two may be all happy about the fact that you were both mind-reading each other like you always do, and making decisions like one plays poker, but in the end... In the end, you both have friends who need you, and miss you, and who are _bloody pissed off_ by your recklessness!' He's doing all he can to keep himself from screaming at us.

Both Sherlock and I frown. It's not like we chose to be infected with a super-virus, right?

'Tea?' I remind him, bringing his mug closer.

'Ta.'

Sherlock won't let it go. 'I fail to see how is mine or John's life more dangerous than police officer like yourself, Lestrade.'

'You're not a police officer, Sherlock', he deadpans.

'And how is John's life more dangerous than his previous time, deployed?'

Greg glances at the ex-soldier in me and decides not to reply.

'There's biscuits in the kitchen', Sherlock lazily comments.

'I'll get them', Greg volunteers at once, looking relieved to avoid the rest of his own lecture for now. _He may need to regroup and rethink his strategy._

'He's right by the way', I comment to Sherlock.

Baker Street's genius just nods mildly. 'I can see that.'

'Good.'

'...John?'

'Yes?'

'Why did you give me the antidote?'

'You expected it', I diverge. He's not fooled.

'Tactic. Doesn't deny the fact that you gave me... _a lot_.'

'The world needs you, Sherlock.' _There's so much more I don't know how to say. _Much less with Greg eavesdropping, as Sherlock is sure to have accounted for. 'You had people to help, Sherlock.'

'Why would I want to solve cases without you?'

'It's what you do', I say, bewildered.

'It's more than that. Before you came along, I solved cases for the mental challenge alone. It was a sort of a compulsion. I wasn't interested or curious about the human connection. John, you made cases be much more that intellectual challenges. You taught me what it _means_.'

I look away, aware that I'm probably blushing. If that wasn't a Sherlock-style compliment, then I really don't know my friend, and the man that gave away half of the cure to a deadly virus so I could get some chances of living.

_**.**_


	116. Chapter 116

_**.**_

Birthdays are overrated. Conniving superfluous dates that insist on coming regularly once a year. It's fine if you're a kid and have a whole life ahead, on a countdown to do exciting things in life. As an adult more often than not I found them inconvenient.

I guess I'm not the most cheerful guy around when talking about my birthday, at least not this evening.

Don't get me wrong, it started okay... _ish_. In the least, it started as a regular unpredictable day. Got up early in the morning so I could go to the clinic to get some paperwork updated in relative peace and quiet. By some shift-shuffling magic I actually had the rest of the day off from late morning on. And, luckily – oh, so luckily – people at work hadn't even noticed it was my birthday. I had the upper hand. Some sweets and refreshments for the nurses (they're always the picky ones) and I'd get it all over with in under five minutes. Everybody could carry on with their work. No silly talk about our ages and the old times, or where I was five years ago (in a foreign distant battlefield fighting for my life), how's my family doing (Harry's just checked herself out of another alcohol rehab programme), or how's life turning out for me (not very comfortable in the middle of this sort of conversations).

That was my plan. _A master-plan, if you will._

That was before Sherlock called. _Master-plan upgraded_, I believed; maybe there'd be a case, something to have fun with today.

A birthday is no more than a fancied up regular day to me, but I'd still enjoy the secret collision of my birthday with a good case where I'd be needed and had the chance to make a difference.

Maybe it's childish, but there's something special to a birthday you can't quite deny.

I ended Sherlock's call with a promise to help him. I got my jacket on and headed straight to Baker Street.

_**.**_

'Sherlock?' I call him out as I climb 221's stairs. It's not unusual that there is no sign of my friend in the cluttered living room and the door is left open ajar. _I wonder if he left off on his case without me already._ 'Sherlock!' I call out snappier this time.

I march into the empty living room then I turn towards the kitchen. The same chemistry set pieces scattered in the kitchen table as usual. No signs of Sherlock's having had a late breakfast and leaving, but then again Sherlock never does things the healthy way. He grabs a sugary treat and heads off the door most times.

'John?' I hear my name being called back from his room down the hall. I stop short at the kitchen. I'm too used to a hyperactive sleep-deprived Sherlock, I realise. I wasn't expecting the detective that just called me to still be in bed at ten in the morning.

Or finally in bed, I ponder. I wonder if he just had one of those cases that last all through the night.

I grab the water kettle to get him some coffee done. I spot something out of the fridge in an evidence bag, and with a sigh I vow to put the biohazard back in refrigeration. As I open it the fridge, I have a fast glance at a small birthday cake box. _Oh, well, maybe Molly's samples can stay out of the fridge a while longer..._

I can't hide a childish smile. I really wasn't expecting Sherlock to remember. My friend with a Mind Palace full of the most important facts doesn't usually give much importance to birthdays, classifying them as "societal conventions designed to celebrate the inevitable ageing process". _He's said it so many times I can quote him now._

Or maybe he's just a tad vain. He did insist on making that point on his last birthday, when Greg and I joined efforts to get him unknowingly into a decorated Baker Street living room, with Mrs Hudson, Molly and a slight promise of a Mycroft appearance, with a selection of gift's treasure-hunted from silly riddles for clues, a nice homely baked cake, all part of a surprise party. I'm quite sure Sherlock enjoyed it. _Even though he never actually admitted it._

As I'm still pondering the past and the open fridge, Sherlock comes in his best pristine look from his bedroom. He glances inside the fridge and grabs the cake box from it with one hand, and the coffee mug with the other hand, leaving me to close the door.

_In a flicker of a glance, I think I recognised "for John" written on the lid with Mrs Hudson's swirly handwriting. _Which makes much more sense anyway.

'You've got a case, then?' I diverge, trying to hide my birthday smile.

He lifts the cake lid with a probing finger, than snatches inside a handful of sponge cake and icing and munches on it with no manners at all. I frown, bewildered. 'Breakfast', he grumps. 'You keep telling me to have breakfast, don't be tedious about it. Oh, just drop it, John!'

_I don't think he noticed he's eating my birthday cake. For a genius he can be very oblivious sometimes._

At least he's having breakfast. _Although I'm not sure if all that amount of sugar in one go can ever be healthy._

I didn't need a birthday cake anyway.

Must make sure to thank Mrs Hudson for getting one anyway_. I can tell Sherlock quite enjoyed it._

'John, you're not listening to me!' the genius detective is protesting now, tense. _What?_ I might have been out for a couple of seconds that was all. _He's just grumpy because of the sugar high._

_All things considered, that was __my__ grumpiness to have, Sherlock!_

Sherlock sighs dramatically and reiterates: 'I was telling you Lestrade insisted we go to the Yard before he discloses the case; John. He did promise me a poisonous curare darts case. We need to hurry!'

I nod in agreement. He still shoves the now empty cake box my way. Can't tell if he meant to share the crumbles or for me to dispose of his theft evidences for him. _We're still __thick as thieves__, as far as I'm concerned._

I wonder if that was a learnt behaviour from growing up with Mycroft...

Sherlock flies off 221B, and I follow right on his heels.

_**.**_

Sherlock might have stumbled upon my birth date somewhere in the recesses of his mind palace. Mrs Hudson was sure to remember, bless her heart. But not Greg. He has no reason to know about my secret today.

As Sherlock and I seat in front of the desk separating us from DI Greg Lestrade, there is a small white evidence box separating the experts from the amateurs. That is... both Sherlock and Greg would draw the differentiation line at the cluttered desk, but assure me _they_ were the experts. As for me, I'm just a doctor on a day off. I'll let them discuss their petty feuds over a set of curare darts, while I soak in the moment. I lean back on the uncomfortable office chair and close my eyes. _This is my day._ Doesn't make it any logically different from any other day of the year, and yet I can't help to smile inwardly as if the day and its progression were my possession today.

'John, are you okay, mate?'

I come to the present moment with a start. I think I may even be blushing, as I assure them: 'Fine, I'm fine. I was miles away there. What did I miss?'

Both Greg and Sherlock frown, unconvinced, but the DI repeats: 'Sherlock was asking you if the exotic poison could have been instead administered to the victims a different way. Ingested, perhaps.'

I squint, going instantaneously through medical facts and figures in an instant. 'Yeah, I guess', I end up saying in the end. _I'm sure Sherlock knows this; what's he getting at?_

Sherlock leans forward in an energetic move, almost like a panther on the attack as he spills out in a brilliant monologue: 'Your murderer is the one of the two last victims. That was obvious from the start because the killing spree ended too abruptly. For a while I entertained the idea that it was murder/suicide, but no, it was far too ingenious. It was like they were trying to leave a mystery for us to solve!'

Greg interrupts: 'Sherlock, you're looking way too cheerful, mate.'

Sherlock doesn't even acknowledge what he just heard. 'Only it wasn't murder/suicide at all! It was murder/negligence, Greg. There was a victim being spared because of extraordinary circumstances. The killer loaded his weapon, blew a dart towards the cheating husband, and when she tried to repeat the procedure to hit the husband's mistress she unintentionally placed her lips over where the poisonous dart tip had touched, so ingesting the poison herself. Death was not long away, as her own poison took effect within seconds... It should have been obvious, had the foolish woman not tried to poke herself for _fun _with a clean dart before hand, misleading us to believe that she had been hit by the dart fallen on the floor... Not that it should have taken you that much longer to catch the murderer, seeing that she worked in a national history's museum archive, where she got the idea and the supplies she needed to exert revenge on her husband... Seriously, Lestrade, this is hardly a case! One would have thought this was a trick to get us here today!'

My heart secretly jumps at those words. The promise they held that – _maybe_ – Greg and some more mates actually know it's my birthday, and we could all go out for drinks at the pub later on today, fills me with a thrill. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I really wanted to celebrate and have friends with me. _Maybe it's not too late to have that._

'Let's go, John!' Sherlock snaps as he's getting up, still overflowing with that restless energy. And Greg makes no effort to stop him. So, no. He really is unaware of my secret. _Darn._

'Hm, bye, Greg... Hm, Thanks', I mumble as I get up to follow Sherlock. I doubt he'll hold the lift for me.

Or the cab.

_**.**_

Sherlock insisted on going by the morgue on the way back to 221B, so he'd collect some rare curare samples from Molly. That would certainly keep him busy (and sulky that the case had turned out to be a flop) all afternoon.

Molly Hooper had just finished some poor sod's autopsy and the disinfectant's pungent smell still clung to the air. She looks up from the body bag she's zipping up with bright eyes and stumbles: 'Hi, Sherlock! Didn't expect you– I'm sure you know you are always welcome– oh, it's a case, is it?'

I feel her awkwardness to be painful and try to give her a warm smile. 'Oh, John, I hadn't seen you there!' _That's okay,_ _I get that a lot._

'You look good, Molly', I offer at once. She presses her lips thin and steals a glance at Sherlock. _I shouldn't have said that, it was careless; she would have rather heard it from Sherlock._

'Is it a case?' she collects herself, as she starts sliding the drawer back, sealing the autopsied corpse back into the refrigerating chamber.

'Curare samples', Sherlock says with a misplaced warm smile. As if the case made him smile, or he's trying to compensate Molly.

She smiles at last, straight at him. 'Knew you'd want some. They're at the desk, Sherlock. You should know I'm not allowed to give people those.'

'I'm not just someone', he notices. I roll my eyes. But Molly just giggles nervously.

'And you, John?' she fixes her attention on me to clear the air. 'Been having a nice day?'

I frown. _She knows it's my birthday._ She's kind and attentive, only someone like that would put up with Sherlock, of course she knows.

'Fine', I mutter cryptically, hoping Sherlock doesn't find out _now_. He'd make a tantrum of me not having properly told him. And not having bought a gift for him to present me with.

Molly furtively looks at Sherlock, and not sensing understanding in the genius' eyes, she hesitates.

'That should keep Sherlock busy for the rest of the day', I joke lightly, pointing at the samples.

'You should keep an eye on Sherlock', she says at once, gaze fixed on me. 'The poison has mostly lost its efficacy by now, being oxidised from all the time gone by since preparation, but still someone should keep an eye out on Sherlock, see if he doesn't accidently poison himself.'

_Yeah._ I sigh before I can help it. No more early night with the telly on. Someone needs to keep an eye on Sherlock and that generally means me.

_**.**_

I can feel the dampness of the river seeping into London. My shoulder is starting to throb, and it's not helping that I was leaning with it against the cab's cold window, where on the other side of the glass the rain is pouring down hard and steady. Sherlock's been quiet – _too quiet_ – all this ride, but I hardly pay attention. I may be Sherlock's protector, but I'm taking a couple of minutes on my birthday to myself. It can hardly be considered selfish.

The cab comes to a halt by a supermarket's big window display, full of promotion goods signs. I don't really care that strawberries are now under £2 on the last day of the promotion, and the stock is practically gone. I focus beyond the bright colours as the red light halts the cab to the spot, and muse on the reflection of the tired small old man on the cab, with drops of water flowing down his reflection, across his face. Suddenly I see a movement behind the soldier's reflection, of a pale face, but in the same instant the cab starts again and I lose tracks of what is reflected from inside the vehicle. As I turn to face Sherlock, he's deeply concentrated on his phone, tracing intense patterns of mysterious messages.

I face the front again, a bit confused. We're just about reaching Baker Street anyway, so I let go of all and close my eyes for a couple of peaceful seconds (before I must keep Sherlock from poisoning himself).

Sherlock exits the cab first, as is his custom. I leave next, selecting some money to pay the cabbie. He doesn't have change and I only have too much, so I end up getting drenched in that rain while I wait for him to find me an acceptable portion of change. He ends up keeping the rest as a particularly high tip.

221 feels warm in contrast, as I'm shrugging off my jacket and hanging it on the wall. A sharp pain assaults my shoulder as I try to raise my jacket to the peg. With a sigh I give up and throw my jacket over the stair's balcony end. That will do today. I'll apologise to Mrs Hudson later.

'John!' a sharp commanding voice echoes from 221B.

'Coming!' I answer patiently, as I remember my mission to keep my friend safe and curare-free tonight.

Apparently I wasn't fast enough. Sherlock descends the stairs with a jittery energy, just enough to glance at where I stand, at the bottom. 'John?' he asks, in lost tone of voice of a bewildered kid. He doesn't get why I'm not racing up the stairs to investigate rare poisons with him, does he?

'John, I think I may have poisoned myself...' he adds, meekly.

My breath catches painfully in my throat, my stomach jolts, and all my blood rushes to my legs and arms. Before I know it I'm already racing up the stairs two at a time, desperate to reach my friend. He's retreated back to the safety of 221B, I can guess, as he disappears of my sight in no time. As I reach the top floor the door is almost closed. This is not good. What is Sherlock trying to keep from me? I should be dialling for an ambulance, so the emergency services can put me through to the poisonous substances centre, and I get specialists on board, and Mycroft, he needs to know, and–

I halt with my hand still heavily leaning on the door handle that I just pushed open. 221B is... _different._

There are paper decorations and a banner saying "Happy Birthday", and confetti, and people – I mean friends, and cake – I mean a big proper cake, not a decoy – and the fireplace is on. 221B couldn't be homeliest than right now.

How did this happen? How was I fooled?

There's Mrs Hudson, and Molly, and Greg, and Mike. The room never felt so cramped.

I'm speechless and overly emotional for a soldier. I square my shoulder, set my jaw, and glance over to the fireplace to collect myself. Even the skull in the mantelpiece is wearing a silly birthday badge over one eye socket. Doesn't look so strange along the long row of birthday cards. Haven't a clue where all of those had been hidden. _Why did Sherlock hide them, anyway?_

'Mycroft helped me set this up for you really fast, John', Sherlock calmly answers my thoughts. 'I had to promise, however, two pieces of cake in return. With icing.' I look over at my friend, hoping my eyes aren't as moist as I feel them to be. 'John, Mycroft warned me about surprising a former soldier with PTSD. I told him you could handle it just fine. I hope I wasn't mistaken.' There's vulnerability in his voice, now, as he won't unlock his soft green eyes from my features.

'It's fine, Sherlock', I mumble. For the first time, actually meaning it, I notice. This is what I didn't _need_, and yet I did.

I was so sure I was stronger than these obvious displays of caring, but at the same time they feel so caring that it's shaking the ground under my feet. _I need to get a grip._

'Thanks, Sherlock. It really means _a lot_.'

He hums thoughtfully, as if he knows. He probably does. He can read it in my expression. It's too damn honest and raw, right now.

Behind us, our friends roam 221B with champagne glasses and commenting our odd sense of decor (mostly Sherlock's creativity there). The soft murmur of conversations and laughter fills the room with warmth, and it only gets cosier when Sherlock takes up his violin. Usually he keeps his wonderful violinist skills to the privacy of the middle of the night, or even when we are both exhausted from a demanding case and the quivering notes are the only logical expression to set our worlds back to course. Not this evening. Sherlock is playing joyfully among friends, trusted ones, even if he plays facing me. As if offering his enlightened music to me alone.

Soon there will be cake, and gifts, and more champagne. Right now, as I take a seat in my armchair and my shoulder pain finally starts to recede, I couldn't be happier it's my birthday – and that birthdays come once a year.

_**.**_

* * *

_A/N: Weird one, I know. I had this one started a long time ago, when I was childishly upset that a friend had insisted on getting me a birthday cake, knowing it'd be my birthday away from home, family and, well, everyone... Given the context, I found the gesture incredibly touching. She and her family got me a small supermarket cake, then when I dashed out to get a phone call from back home (it was a long call, in fairness) they proceeded to eat all the cake themselves. They told me it was __nice__ (and the kids wanted seconds). I still find the whole situation rather odd. –csf_


	117. Chapter 117

_A/N: Back when I wrote this (a very long time ago, probably in the first ten) I wanted to make a darker one, but – yeah – looking at it now, I don't know where this one came from. Then again, I never do. At the time, I thought I had erased it by mistake. Found a lost copy by accident and decided to put it here with the rest. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'How did you know you'd find me here, Sherlock?' There's iciness in my tone of voice, and my general demeanour betrays a deep disgust towards the man gently standing in front of me. He keeps himself from the previous attempts of gesturing to appease me, they only aggravated me more. Sherlock stands quiet, demure, humble even, as he tries to answer me fully, rationally:

'I deduced it. I know you well, John.' Is there _seriously_ a warm tone under his words? _Does he think I'm that daft?_

'Mycroft told you that too, did he?' I snap back, seeing through his lies with clarity. _No more manipulation._

'Yes', he admits, realising he has been caught. I turn my back to leave the peaceful cemetery. Where I stood before he came trailing in, because he stalked me again, like he knows how to do best, because he just won't let me be. Just as if I'm his bloody pet, or a property item; he thinks he can tell me what to do, does he?

Immediately he followed me again. Maybe I should be grateful for his guilty conscious. _Only I couldn't._ His meddling only aggravates me in light of recent events.

'Just drop it, Sherlock', I ask, tensely. A fair warning given the shared friendship. One I'm not sure still stands at the moment.

He skips a beat before assuring me: 'I won't, John.' _He can't. Like a lost puppy, he always wanders back to me._

Again, I swiftly turn around and blunder of the cemetery with less quietness than the solemn place called for.

_**.**_

'John, please slow down.'

Sherlock's words travel the little distance between us as he keeps up trailing faithfully behind me. His appeal comes tainted by the same shortness of breath that is affecting me, only mine is derived from anger-fueled physical exertion.

I shake my head stubbornly, as my only option. Without even looking over my shoulder and back at Sherlock. I can't stand to look at him right now. I feel his analytical gaze frozen on my back, none the less. Pondering if there still is a way out of the deep _mess_ he made.

'John, I shouldn't have—' Sherlock starts, in a stricken, too well rehearsed, voice.

I stop and turn on my heels to face him. The strength of my arguments showing on my expression and body language. I see him flinch when faced with all the anger a wronged soldier can muster to the world, and Sherlock in particular. Part of me – a lost, hurt, damaged part of me – _loved to see him flinch_.

'One more word, Sherlock, and I will make you shut up.' I warn him, in more words than I've gathered coldly for him in the last hours.

He tilts his head to the side. _Completely oblivious as ever._

'We both know you wouldn't win, John. You fight better than me, but right now you are emotional and I know your every move. I can anticipate them. I can block all your blows and hit you back. I'd hurt you.'

'I wouldn't bet on that, Sherlock', I darkly dare him. He frowns, sadly. As if I'm placing a burden on him.

'Why would you wish for me to hurt you, John?' he interprets.

I shake my head, a self-deprecating smile twisting my face. I'm fighting too hard to keep control. This time Sherlock has done it. Really done it. Beyond repair. And we won't let go, sinking further by his every sentence.

'John, please come back with me.'

I laugh without humour. 'This is not going away just like that, Sherlock.' It's a warning as it comes out of my mouth. It's only fair he knows this despite his stumped social skills.

'I could tell you the same', he claims, dignified. 'It won't go away just because you won't speak to me.'

_I hate him so badly right now._

_**.**_

'John, stop it, will you?! It's the third time you pass the same war memorial, have you even noticed? Have you no logic left in you?'

We've been wondering around aimlessly across London, Sherlock trailing behind me as I fume and blunder around, ignoring passers-by, red lights and cars, anything in my way. Sherlock has been keeping up with everything, stoically. He's even starting to show signs of tiredness, unlike me. I've got too much pent up energy.

_Doesn't erase the major unforgivable mistake he's made._

_**.**_

Suddenly someone yanks me back, stopping me in my tracks. I immediately throw a punch. Sherlock drops to the floor without even an instinctive defence movement. I stand over him, panting, gathering my stunned thoughts, my curled fists shaking by my side. I won't hit a man when he's down. He knows that, and waits to get up to see if I cool down. _This rare payback should have felt better._

'You don't get to do that, Sherlock!' I finally yell at him. Pride and dignity be damned.

He smiles, victoriously, because he managed to tick me off, it's all in the open now. _I hate him._

'Yes, I do', he taunts me with a victorious smirk, getting up. I barely hold myself from punching his scrawny smirk off.

'You don't get to take my gun from me!' It's the one thing I've clang onto from Afghanistan and back, the one object that gives me control when I hold it panting from a terrible nightmare to ward off horrible memories, the one item that I keep as a lifeline - _or not_.

'I'm not giving you your gun back', he tells me sincerely in a quiet voice.

'I'll make you!' _I might enjoy it too._

'No, John. Not after you just heard of the death of a close army friend at his own hands. Not when to take a breath you go to the cemetery to revisit graves of men you lost at war; not when I enter 221B and find you putting only one bullet inside your gun - because we both know you are a marksman, you only need one bullet to make it count, and anyway the target was easy enough. Not while I struggle as I see the flickering fading light in your eyes, same as you had when you first wandered into St Bart's with Stamford. I may be a lousy friend to you, John, but this you ask I won't do for you. I won't go away. Do you seriously think you are the only one in the world that ever felt lost, hopeless, desperate and numb at the same time? Don't be daft, it doesn't suit you. Surely you can see that there are friends near you who have been where you are now emotionally, and pulled through. Because there is a way out, a light out of the tunnel, a silver lining to every dark cloud, and every platitude turns out to be reality eventually. So, no. I'm not going away. And I'm not leaving you alone until you are again the John Watson I know. The one that saves lives, not the one that ponders taking them. Taking my best friend from me.'

I huff, indignant, and speechlessly turn my back on him yet again. He won't stand to see me part again, not even dramatically. Immediately he grabs me. Holding on to me, clinging as my lifeline. _Predictable, really._ I try to fight him off. For a skinny guy he's actually quite strong. _He won't let go._

'It's actually quite disrespectful that you'd think I'd do that now, Sherlock.'

His stunned gaze is locked on mine. Understanding floods his youthful expression as his eyes flicker contained, raking my whole face, looking for every single clue he might find there. Finally a bit ashamed he steps back, still measuring me. He now knows it's true. _He knows the injustice he's done to me._

'Then why would you fake it? Do you know how much you scared me, John!?' He's the one yelling now. No more Mr Nice Guy. He's bigger than life, gesticulating wildly, yelling for my attention and any passersby. Adrenaline release, I gather. _Still doesn't feel right._

'You are not alone, John!' he screams from the top of his lungs in a unpremeditated confession, born of fright. Scared I'd leave him. _As if he actually believes he __needs__ me._

Can't deny the raw pain in his innocent lichen green eyes, home to those trembling tinged irises with all sorts of forest tones. It's not something he can fake. He was genuinely scared and devoted to protect me from myself.

_I'm glad I came this far, and I have someone who cares so intensely for me. I would have never guessed it back then, and yet we came to meet._

I succumb to the exhaustion and round my shoulders. 'I was trying to figure out why _he's_ done it, Sherlock. A fellow soldier. We were close, both came from the same sort of background, home, family... I could easily have been him and he could have been me. We often joked about that. It's like... losing a twin. An _alternative self_ is more like it. Sherlock, I was trying to know how I failed him.' I scrub my face, exhausted. Maybe I just want to erase that raw scared look in Sherlock's face that has clung to my memories so strongly. 'You weren't meant to figure it out wrong. I went to Baker Street to retrieve my gun. I ended up seating on the sofa, weighting it, studying it. I suppose it didn't look good on Mycroft's security cctv live feed. _Which is creepy, by the way._ We all do things in our privacy we don't expect to be recorded by a secret governmental agency...'

'This is not about my brother, John', Sherlock softly steers me back to topic.

'No, this is about how I failed someone', I face Sherlock straight on, allowing him to see my shame.

'Oh.' He seems to get it. 'I'm sure you didn't fail him, John.' My friend looks like he actually means it. It softens my remnant anger, seeing him trying to help me with what cannot be helped. _His gesture still counts a lot._

'And thanks, I suppose', I add, for what it's worth. I'm feeling empty and detached, after the chaotic whirlwind of supressed and exploded emotions.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, scrutinising me.

'You've changed the subject and you're not in the least thankful, John.'

I nod and my lips twitch in a pale attempt of a smile. Once again Sherlock's blunt honesty touches a chord in me, it's refreshing. He doesn't respect much of social conventions, and it follows that what he's now saying he means it. _Even the unspoken words._

'No, I'm not. But I suppose I should be, given what you thought.' _I'm sorry I didn't see how it scared you, Sherlock. I was stuck in my own grief._

'Hm', he ends it, expressionless. _Apologies accepted, touchy subject dropped, evasion manoeuvre being located._

'Let's go back, please', I ask him, exhausted. 'To my house. I can get you some take away.'

'Baker Street', he imposes at once.

'Why?' I protest, half-heartedly.

'Just drop it, John, and please come to 221B, where I can have your company the rest of the evening.'

'Why?' _Again._

He shrugs. 'Your armchair, a case, Mrs Hudson's blueberry muffins. Any reason will suffice, I'm sure.'

He's still not leaving me alone. Even if he knows there is no danger. For the first time in a long time, I've learnt I'm _never alone_. My best friend saves lives; today he was once again trying to save mine.

_**.**_


	118. Chapter 118

_A/N: Another oldie that had got lost (found it inside an old handbag). Sent shivers down my back reading it (and as I'm rearranging it now), but I gather that's because I remember what went on when I wrote this. Life wasn't being easy so I took it out on the characters. Shameful, really. Not the stuff real writers write, but then again I keep saying I'm not a real writer. So I'll just add it up, because this collection is also a part of my journey. Bypass it if you will.  
__Also, I had to part it in two just because it's too long. -csf  
_

* * *

_**. First Part**_

Sherlock fell flat across the floor as the awful sound of a wood plank hitting him in the head, and sending him flying off to the ground beside his overturned chair, echoed in the vast warehouse. I shiver in uncontrollable anger, but I'm restrained as well and hopeless to protect my friend. I close my eyes for a second as a shiver runs down my spine, and I know for sure that this will populate my future nightmares. This helplessness in face of the danger Sherlock is under. _I vow to do what it takes, given the chance._

'So, ready to answer now?' the leader growls to the prostrated figure bellow, no shred of humanity left in his cold demeanour. Not that we expected any, given that he has masterminded a vast killings spree for personal profit. A Moriarty in the making, but much more crude and uninventive. 'Which one of you is the detective, the famous one?' he snarls in victory.

For a moment, Sherlock looks upwards in wild disbelief. Common courtesy would state that a quick internet research would have answered that one beforehand.

I don't hesitate. In other circumstances I might have been held back by the fact that I'm really a bad liar. Easy to see through, I had to give up poker because I rarely pulled through my bluffs. Might as well fold before I even start. Give up. Cough up the truth. Only not today. Just today, I decide on the insane answer. _Because there really is no other available._

Taking another fast glance I can tell that Sherlock is fighting to remain conscious as it is (a moderate concussion on the detective is a likely possibility). There's no way he can survive a second blow to the head on the same terms.

_Sherlock's beautiful mind is at risk._

I let out a restrained breath and roll my shoulders back. _This is my best friend and I know him better than anyone._ 'I'm Sherlock Holmes', I lie. 'I assume you are referring to me even though you have decided not to acknowledge me by name.' I say every word in a carefully measured time, sucking in all the attention in the room to myself. Three armed thugs and a true consulting detective size me carefully.

All the focus in the room shifted to me, but some returns to the leader as he acknowledges: 'Well, you certainly are a cold bastard.' With his comment he gestures to Sherlock, on the floor.

I smile smugly. _He _sure is. Sherlock, I mean. He probably rationalised the danger over me as an inevitable extension to our partnership. "_I said dangerous and here you are."_

'He's my blogger. It's handy to have someone around as a witness, although most of the time he's barely useful...'

Sherlock, the real Sherlock, flinches slightly as he hears my rendition of a cold heartless consulting detective. Whether he's playing the sidekick's act or he's reacting to the description of – essentially – myself, I cannot tell. I won't cross gazes with my friend right now. I don't think I'd be able to do it without betraying the deep concern I feel for him.

Perhaps he's right in his own way; _caring_ does me no good right now.

'And yet you came here because of him.'

Yes, I came in to try to rescue Sherlock. Turns out it's getting trickier than I expected. Mostly because I was spotted as I entered, and they took my faithful Browning, the one the leader is now using to threat Sherlock and I. And if it had been Sherlock coming to rescue me...

I shrug my shoulders very visibly. 'We can talk about John all afternoon long, sure, if that's really what you want.'

'We just might', the leader sustains my bluff. _Just like poker again. _Only Sherlock has an answer for this.

I frown, puzzled. 'Actually, I'm not sure I have the material for a whole afternoon, John is quite ordinary.'

The leader has his gun pointed to Sherlock, still mostly sprawled on the floor, slightly raised on one of his elbows to face us. Tense, he takes his gaze from Sherlock to me and then back, over and over again. _He's making a decision._

'We have other things to talk about, Holmes', he barks and I could have smiled out of relief. He bought my act and points the gun at me now. 'Tie that one up!' he orders his men, his aim steady on me.

'No, wait!' Sherlock shouts from the ground. '_Just drop it, John!_' he demands, directly.

_Can't._

_Sorry._

I wander a pitiful gaze to my friend, and then I smile. A fake smile, of course. But not a polite social greet, nor an awkward excusing grimace, much less a happy genuine display. It comes out crooked and detached. He flinches as our gazes interlock and he recognises none of his friend in my expression. 'Claiming _he's_ Sherlock', I mock the fallen man. 'I guess the blow to the head was a bit too strong. Just...' I shake my head tiredly, and look away from Sherlock's vulnerable trembling eyes, begging me to see in me his friend, _his John_, again. 'Just shut up, you idiot.' _Please shut up, let me do this._

My friend's eyes widen with a touch of genuine hurt. _I'm sorry, Sherlock._

Apparently satisfied, the leader has Sherlock restrained and, to his horror, gagged. I can tell what goes on in that beautiful mind of his just by the trembling in his lichen green eyes. If the blow hadn't been so hard, he may have anticipated this possibility and then, surely, he would have opposed himself to my impersonation from the start. But he didn't foresee that he would be gagged and silenced, utterly incapable of restoring the truth and correct the identifications. I'm sure he wouldn't have let it happen this way. One moment of slowness brought about by a traumatised brain and the stunning performance by a bastard consulting sidekick, formerly of the 5ft Northumberland Fusiliers, sealed both our fates – and placed in me the onus of what is to come next.

_Not good._

Sherlock's muffled protests go seemingly unnoticed by me. I hold myself perfectly still, back straight, proud chin squared sternly. _Oh, yes, this is not my first interrogation, Sherlock. I know what comes next._

As the fake consulting detective I'm kept on the only occupied chair in the room, arms tied behind my back and my ankles restrained to the back legs of the chair. No one gags me, of course, I'm expected to speak, loud and clear, about the case and the police officers involved. Oh, and worse, I know the answers I need to keep quiet. I must keep myself collected all the way through this ordeal I'm sharing with Sherlock. I'll use my friend as inspiration. I'm sure he could pull this off with relative ease. If I can be at least a bit like him in this time he needs me so much...

There's no way I'll allow myself a single slip over Greg, Sally or Phillip... Funny, I don't really call those last two by their given names. It's a simple proof that no matter if our relationship doesn't run as deep as it runs with Greg Lestrade, I'm still as ready to protect them, despite the cost.

I look slowly to Sherlock. Not because he managed to catch my attention with his efforts, but of my own accord. I need to show my friend that I made my decision, that I'm not scared – mostly, that I know what I'm doing. If nothing good comes out of this, I really hope Sherlock can remember as much. _It's my choice, and I take responsibility._

'I think we'll keep this one out of the blog, John', I say out loud before I turn my face back to the leader. We both hear Sherlock's muffled protests, redoubled in strength. 'Ask away.'

'How did you get here, Holmes?'

I roll my eyes, channelling my crazy friend. 'So that's your first question?' I sneer.

Okay, so maybe Sherlock wouldn't have done that, especially judging from the high pitched no-nonsense protests he tries to give me. Then again, maybe he's just being a bit jealous right now.

A brutal swing collides with my jaw. I had seen it, collecting distance and speed, I saw it coming in advance, so I managed not to look too surprised.

From the ground a heap of hurt detective groans menacingly, dark unmentioned promises filling the air with their intensity.

'Who knows you two are here?'

Finally I allow myself to smile coldly. At last this questioning is going somewhere productive.

'Yes, the police are on their way', I answer him like a father to a particularly young child.

'Who's the officer in charge? I need a name. You say he's coming. Who is he?'

_Greg. _I shrug easily. 'Not telling you. If you wait long enough, though, you can get to meet him. Next question?'

A second swing at my temple swayed the room for longer, in the aftermath. I can still hold my ground firmly, I make sure, as I shake my head in an attempt to refocus my vision (not very medically advisable, but natural responses have their own merits and the duplicates fall into place). I stare back impassively to the leader. The effect of my stubborn answer becomes intense.

Belatedly I come to feel a drizzle of blood running down my face from my bruised cheek, where the impact broke the skin apart. I ignore it easily. I'm on a roll in this let's-play-Sherlock game. I stare back looking more collected than anyone else in the room, even verging on appearing bored.

As the leader looks back on his team, I allow myself a quick glance at my team. Sherlock shakes his head pleadingly. "_Stop this"_ – I read easily.

I guess he doesn't agree with my impersonation of a cold-hearted machine. _Then again, he wouldn't, I'm leaving out all the beautiful things that make Sherlock human, and great, and good._ I know he wouldn't be bored just now, not even for an act. Sherlock doesn't understand I'm channelling someone else now. Someone I know only too well.

Captain John H. Watson. He's been captured before. And he _does_ get bored. Especially when there's utterly useless beating and shouting involved. I may have gone through worst before, and my answers were given in a foreign language at the time. _This should be a piece of cake, now._

After a few tense words with his team, urging them to guard the premises attentively, the serial killer starts fondly caressing his gun as he turns to ponder his main hostage, me.

'I said: who's the officer in charge?' and he raises his gun with precision. _Amateur precision._ Doesn't point it to my head, maximising the fear response. He's got it aimed at my stomach. Nasty shot, if it were to be taken. Better changes for survival, though.

'And I refused to answer', I recall. The standstill is turning very tense indeed.

The leader glances at Sherlock, on the floor, pondering him for leverage. I feel the last remnants of colour draining from my face, and struggle to keep it together. I tilt my head to the side, like a bored man depreciating the way his time being wasted. All the while, Sherlock's gaze is fixed on me. As if he doesn't want to sever the one connection to me, in a strange belief-like state that he can keep me save if he just watches over me. _Maybe he can._ I take a deep breath, shying my gaze away from Sherlock's. His humanity so raw and scared – for me, for us – is unsettling. _I need to do anything that keeps them from understanding they can use Sherlock as leverage, that I'm not as cold as I'm trying to fool them._ I know I need to speak out in my loudest clearest voice when I tell them: 'Still not answering. Time is on my side.'

Sherlock's eyes widen in unmasked panic. He senses this has crossed the invisible line. A string of muffled sounds comes out of his gagged mouth, sounding pleading, scared, _alive_.

'Last chance, Holmes', the armed man threatens me.

Sherlock severs his gaze for a fraction of a second, evaluating the thug.

'No way', I answer, coldly.

'Then you are useless to me.'

The gunshot is white and bright as it comes off the gun, lightening the warehouse. As the scary sound reaches us, deafening in its roaring, I'm being jerked by the impact, but still tied to the chair, I'm kept in place despite the sudden onslaught. As the familiar sickening smell of hot gunpowder, blood, adrenaline, pain, fear and sweat fill my senses, I can hear Sherlock choke on his anguish, and it's his reaction that focuses me beyond my body's trauma, to keep me minimally collected. I look down to him, trying to imprint in him this notion that I'm okay, I'll be alright, but all I can see are green eyes filling with honest tears. That, more than the pain that finally starts to scream in my body, assures me I've been hit. There's an invisible countdown starting. Depending on where I was hit. I can guess Sherlock's mind working behind his worry tinged expression, running through all the variables and mathematical possibilities of me surviving this, his vast knowledge on anatomy, and medicine – and forensics? – rolling virtual data for him.

A string of creative swearing through gritted teeth validates my alive-status to my friend, better than anything I could have stated.

'You little piece of—' I stop myself short, curling on myself, as I realise I've just returned to English. Somehow I've started cursing in Farsi, the little I learnt in Afghanistan – out of previous experiences, I assume – going from someone's lame mule to things that would get me shot if I said them out loud in a market._ Being shot. Yeah. Just had one of those, let's hold off being shot at for now._

I look up towards the man who shot me, still holding on firmly to the hot gun. _My gun._ It looks more frightening when viewed from this side. The killer looks too collected to this to be his first time shooting someone.

'Will you talk now, Holmes?'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	119. Chapter 119

_A/N: Second part - and resolution - is here. I have others planned, hopefully they'll turn out less traumatising._

_ Context: Sherlock and John face a wicked criminal, assuming each other's identities. That was John's "brilliant" idea, when Sherlock got roughened up. Then John did as well. Finally, John got shot. Yes, this is sort of plotless, I can see that. -csf_

* * *

_**. Second Part**_

'Will you talk now, Holmes?'

He means me. I finally reach the end of my creativity in cursing under my breath (and my breath too) and accepting defeat on that account I lower my heavy head somewhat. My tied hands catch behind my back in the chair, stopping me from collapsing forward. The ragged breath that is ripped of me next seems to be equally as painful for Sherlock, judging by the devastated look in his expression, but I know it can't be so. Mine has got to be so much worse.

Shallow ragged breaths filling the silence, clearly ineffective. Shock is soon to follow, and will only muddle my reasoning from here on. _Sometimes I wish I wasn't a doctor, and I didn't know these things._

How have I blundered this hostage situation so fast? How did I manage to do everything but to make Sherlock safe? He's next, if I can't pull myself together to keep the charade. How did I let myself get shot?

A pondered look towards Sherlock, my best friend, and I realise I must be the worst friend in the world. He looks so hopeless, so tortured by what he has just seen, that I must conclude I'm toxic and evil. I allowed him to hurt this bad by keeping him safe in the sideline. I, of all people, should know it's so devastating hard to be in the sideline.

He starts screaming threats through his gag, probably to get the sadistic armed man's attention back on him. To help me. Because he senses I need some time to collect myself. _Sherlock is still my friend and I couldn't have asked to be paired with a better person._

'Do you know the answers?' the thug turns on my friend, materialising my worst fears. _He went back to Sherlock._

The man comes closer to the real consulting detective to remove the dirty cloth that keeps my friend muted.

'Of course I know!' Sherlock can't stop the rage spilling in his words, and doesn't try either. 'I'm his blogger, aren't I?'

I follow that interaction through sadness and guilt. All the while Sherlock is taking a page out of my book, and looks detached and cold, albeit angered. _He's not being a very good fake-John._

All but the fact that he keeps up the charade looks bad. Despite the shock of seeing me being shot in front of him, Sherlock keeps enough cool and rationality to keep up my mistaken identities mockery. It tells me he keeps control in this lopsided world of mine.

'He's bluffing', I say, in precise words, despite my lack of breath.

The man turns back to me, raising an eyebrow. 'Would he risk your life like that?'

'Of course. He's always trying to make me believe he's important, that I need him.' I turn to Sherlock and state directly to him: 'Sherlock Holmes works best alone. He doesn't have friends.' _You'd do better to remember that now._

The armed man curses and shakes his head. He's onto us, or just plain bored with these alter ego's displays. 'Hold them!' he shouts to his men. 'They're just playing games with us. We'll take them as hostages!'

I close my eyes, exhaustion and pain draining me. I can hear my own laboured breathing and no doctor would approve of it. I focus on keeping it as even as I can.

Sherlock is released from his bindings first. Rebelliously he comes straight to me and grabs me by my shoulders, holding me together and upright. _Yeah, that helps. _I sigh, allowing a deeper breath at last.

'John...' he murmurs just between the two of us. He's using that deep rich voice of his, the one that never fails to grasp my attention, to mesmerise me. I blink to focus him straight. The red stain that flowed freely from the blow to his head has mostly clotted by now, and his contrasting green eyes look intense as he runs his gaze on me. There's a slight quiver to his lips, almost a smile, as he recognises _his_ _John_ at last.

I've been untied from the chair by one of the sadistic leader's accomplices. Before we can be directed to whatever plan of escape these men have, a loud sound of police car sirens cuts the air warningly.

Sherlock and I exchange heavy glances. _Greg._ Both potentially our saviour and the next victim.

_Sherlock, we need to protect Greg._

_I'm sure Sherlock thinks the same._

In a swift, wholly unexpected move, Sherlock reaches out on top of me to the man behind me. In his manoeuvre he rolls a protective arm around my shaking frame, hugging me against his jacket, while he struggles with the man behind us to take control of the gun he carries as well. I'm (gently none the less) shoved to the ground behind my friend as he shields me from any accidental discharge of the gun that might have occurred while taking possession. The same discharge as I hear as soon as I hit the ground (less than comfortably). Wildly, I fight my body's sluggishness to face behind me, to check on Sherlock – _he's learnt that recklessness from me; what is he doing?; he's the one that needs to be protected, he should never do that, that's my job! – _only to gasp out a sigh of relief. Sherlock wasn't shot. There's a man on the floor, writhing, and it's the accomplice.

_Dangerous profession, being a serial killer's accomplice._

_Not like I'm one to talk..._

The leader knows the tables have turned. He shoots a couple of drunken shots in our direction and flees the scene.

Luckily none hits us.

_Greg!_ I struggle to get to my feet, immediately aided by my loyal friend. But my equilibrium is unstable, and I can barely stand straight. Sherlock will not leave me, so he does second best. In all his trust in my abilities, no matter my current state, he hands me the gun he pilfered right now. I only have time to share a dark look with Sherlock, and the raging darkness I see in his eyes make me decide.

I raise a tired arm ahead of me and pull the trigger as soon as I have the running away killer in my range.

He falls to the ground immobile at once.

_Got you!_

I fall as well. But much slower, still supported by my friend. He won't let go of me.

'Check him out, Sherlock. He's got my gun', I demand, worried about a new turn of events.

He shakes his head slowly (both in faith in my marksman skills and so not to aggravate his concussion, I suspect). 'You got him, John. Too bad it wasn't a kill shot.'

I nod, scrunching my face again. 'Can't shoot a man in his back. It's okay, though. Greg would want his revenge too. He can get it now.'

Sherlock turns his face to me with an irate expression. '_Now_ you decide to be John Watson?' he berates me, appalled.

I'm left utterly confused, wrapped in the security of his arms.

_**.**_

The paramedics have settled me into a gurney. Next comes the central lines and the IV. I watch them work lazily on me, my attention keeps wandering back to Sherlock, who's being tested for pupil dilation to light. I want to make sure his concussion didn't leave permanent marks in that beautiful mind of his.

'John!' Someone calls me. It's Greg Lestrade, and he's jogging towards me. There really is no hurry anymore, so it must be energy release that makes him run. 'Sorry I couldn't come sooner. I spoke to the paramedics, they told me you were shot and Sherlock got bashed in. You really look like hell, mate. How are you doing?' There's concern in his voice, and he leans over to me, making the young paramedic frown on him. Greg notices it, and finally takes in the whole medical work happening around us.

'I want my gun back', I tell Greg, a bit too clingy. 'They shot me with a Browning. My Browning. It's not evidence, it's mine', I impose with the strongest voice I can master, that only finishes as little more than a whimper.

Greg takes a caring supportive hand to my shoulder, his whole attention finally on me and not on the paramedics still stabilising my wound.

'John, you'll have your Browning back by the time you're healed', he promises in a lower voice, like a secret between us. 'Right now, it's evidence', he maintains, never the less.

Sherlock snaps in, from further away: 'You can have my gun, John!'

I blearily focus on my friend. He understands it's not just about a faithful old weapon. He knows I'm clutching to it like a security blanket for a toddler. He's vowing to help me through this.

Greg barks back at one: 'It's not your gun and it's evidence too!'

Sherlock squints angrily and then releases his expression to a petulant childish challenge: 'What gun, Greg? I didn't see another gun.' I could almost giggle.

'Sherlock, you will not steal the evidence!' Greg is actually shouting now, in exasperation and adrenaline release.

Sherlock shrugs, nonplussed, with a bright light in his eyes as we watches over me from the distance.

Greg sighs and moves away. I guess he's going to secure the evidence himself.

Sherlock takes this opportunity to swat away the last efforts of the paramedic working on him and walks gingerly to me. As he comes close we are left in an awkward silence.

_I'm sorry, Sherlock._

'You told them their mules were lame, John...' Sherlock reproaches me suddenly. I glance back at him and recognise the amused twinkle in his eyes.

'Wait, do you know Farsi?' _What am I asking, he's a genius, he must be infinitely multilingual._

He pats his returned phone, on his pocket. 'I researched what you said. I have a better memory than most, after all.'

Finally I smile. 'Traditionally that's a good insult, I've been assured.'

He nods, comically. 'One never knows when it might come in handy.'

'Exactly. Look, Sherlock...' I start, feeling really guilty. Again he cuts me short:

'I'm not like that, John.'

I nod, truthfully. _Never believed he was a sociopath like he proclaimed proudly for so long. _In the end I opt for a cryptic answer, one that Sherlock can chew on: 'You always tell me that I'm lousy at deceit, Sherlock.' And I just about wink, for good measure.

His face lights up, innocently. 'You never cease to surprise me, John Watson. And I hope you never do.'

_**.**_


	120. Chapter 120

_A/N: These days, I'm all beginnings and no endings (in what I write). So... fingers crossed and lots of wishful thinking? __-csf_

* * *

_**. 1st .**_

'The victim had extreme manual dexterity, borne out of years playing videogames for hours on end on his divorced mother's basement', Sherlock deduced at once. 'You can easily see that by the hunchback and the characteristic flattening of his fingertips in both his index and thumb. You can also find these in amateur writers with typewriter machines, but then the fingertip shape is extended to the rest of the hands, and in trumpet players, but there the flattening of the thumb radiates from the phalanges. Piano players, however, tend to—'

'Alright, alright! I believe ya!' Lestrade stops him before Sherlock can delve into further detail. The partially ignored detective just about pouts, before turning on his heels with a coat swish and flap behind him.

'We're done here, John!' he lets me know, haughtily.

I hide a knowing smirk, and avoid Greg Lestrade's complicity look. 'Sherlock, we can't possibly be done yet!'

'Why not?' He stops but won't even turn back to us yet. 'I've given you all the clues you can possibly need to solve this boring crime!'

I frown, glancing back, as the body is being zipped inside a transport bag to be taken to autopsy.

'What? Sherlock, are you telling us he died playing a videogame?'

Sherlock's shoulders slump as he realises he needs to spell it out for us. His mind seemingly breaks the speed of light sometimes, and having to spell it out for us is painfully tiresome to a genius like him.

Still he never fails to explain when I ask him to. For me and Greg. Like a caring gesture, in a way. _Not that he frowns upon being deservingly praised either._

'The victim died of dehydration and malnutrition. Or, as a doctor like you would say if we had arrived in time to have a glimpse at the full body that is being taken away – like Lestrade did – he died of some congenital weakness that caused his heart to fail, exacerbated by endless hours of mindless tasks in a contained position, neglecting his own body needs.'

I cut Sherlock short: 'I keep telling you that _can_ _happen_, Mr I-don't-need-to-eat-or-sleep-while-on-a-case.'

'Even I cater to my body needs _in extremis_, John! This man didn't. So the true question is can his mindless virtual tasks and the gratification they bring about be so absorbing that got him over the edge despite all natural survival instincts?'

Sherlock, Greg and I look blankly at each others.

Ominously, Sherlock adds: 'Only one way to find out.'

_This feels like a really bad idea._

Sherlock can easily read the discomfort in my expression and he retaliates: 'The victim was alone. He lived with his mother, away from friends, no wife or girlfriend, no job, and his mother happened to go on holidays. There was no one left to call him back to the so-called "real world". He played the game across two straight days till his body suffered a catastrophic system failure, unable to withstand it anymore. That he actually died is an unfortunate product of his congenital heart defect, of which he was most probably unaware... In other words, we can give it a try, John. It's minimally safe because we are not alone.' He rolls his eyes, pretending innocence at the same time. '_Someone_ keeps telling me I'm not alone, wonder who that could be...'

_Git._ 'Yeah, well', I sustain. 'This case might just prove my point.'

'I'm sure it does', he tells me, patronisingly. _He always has to have the last word._

Greg has been watching over our interaction with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. He now tells us: 'That videogame is evidence. You can't just—'

Apparently Sherlock thinks he can. Our friend dives down to the floor, just recently vacated of body and floor pillows (taken as evidence), and grabs the black PVC controls for the videogame system. Before he can be stopped, he has turned them on.

Looks like a first person point of view strategy game, in some Victorian futuristic society (like some sort of steampunk-ish alternative universe) from what appears in the screen in front of us.

Behind us, the Yard officers continue their routine jobs, collecting evidence and sealing off the scene.

'What now?' Sherlock asks, bewildered. He's wasting time looking down on his avatar-self. Beige coloured shirt with a mile long of buttons at the front, under a tweed waistcoat with leather details and a golden pocket watch with filigree engraved patterns around the dial. In his hand a Spanish musket held on a fingerless leather glove. Canvas trousers with a ten inch knife on a hip holster and sturdy all terrain boots, over the cobble stone damp pavement. Sherlock, the real Sherlock, looks stunned and properly vain as he evaluates the outfit. 'By the presence of the eighteen hundred's firearm am I supposed to deduce that—'

Suddenly another character, with a metallic crossbow, flashes on the corner of the screen and shoots at Sherlock's point of view. **_Game Over._**

I don't think Sherlock as ever played videogames before. Probably best too, given his addictive personality. Don't want to see one of those game stations at Baker Street and Sherlock wasting himself in front of it.

Greg rubs his eyes tiredly in a judgemental way. 'Just give it to me, Sherlock', he asks tiredly. He finally seems to accept the idea of playing with the evidence. 'We should probably leave this to the Yard specialists', he still tells us. 'They must know all the tricks in the game.'

Sherlock shakes his head, taking up a postal package between his gloved fingers. 'Wrong, Lestrade. The victim got sent this game. Must be a message. But of what?'

'Possibly a fellow gamer', Greg suggests.

'The victim had an avoidant personality disorder', Sherlock disagrees. 'You can tell that by the position of the only chair in the room. Clearly he did not take well outsider's interruptions. Not even ones coming through the gaming system.'

Greg just shrugs for now. His attention is more closely locked on the game controls. He turns them on and the same character's point of view on a historical but futuristic set reappears on the screen.

_If only real life could be reset so easily._

As the crossbow character shows up, this time he is expected and Greg manages to avoid it by steering completely to his left, through what seems to be a narrow alley. Greg grins at the screen, victoriously. Then the sound of metal blades crossing the air is heard and the screen goes black. **_Game Over._**

'You didn't watch your back', I comment, distractedly. That earns me a glare.

'I'll try again', Greg is onto it already. _Still, I wouldn't call this game addictive. This is just natural competitiveness flaring up in my friends._ Greg is suddenly halted by a forceful hand, that softly pats his shoulder.

Greg and I stare back at Sherlock. _What?_ 'Sherlock', Greg starts, taking in his seriousness, 'don't joke, mate.'

'This was sent by the murderer.'

Sherlock nods, which only confuses us more. 'The victim was the hero here', our Baker Street's genius tells us.

'You're not making much sense', I warn my friend fairly.

'The victim was trying to save a life. He was worried that every day someone new is being kidnapped and will be killed if this game isn't won.'

I feel my blood turn cold and I actually shiver. The game was played for over two days straight. Two more corpses and today's victim's fate is still on hold.

Who would be the sadistic monster to set this up?

Before anyone else, Greg is already barking out orders for the "computer nerds" from the Yard. The internet signal must be traced – someone is monitoring this gaming station. He then calls Sergeant Sally Donovan to trace the postal deliveries. Finally, he turns to Sherlock, looking aghast but strong.

'I'm trusting you here', he warns the consulting detective. _Tell us this is not all in your imagination, Sherlock, we know you love a good case to be as complicated as possible._

Sherlock Holmes nods simply, quietly, ignoring how this could be perceived as distrust, but he knows differently from us.

'The message is coded inside the envelope. I decoded it. Do you really want me to talk you through it?' he asks tensely, hurrying up. 'There is no time, Lestrade. The gamer died hours ago. The game wasn't won, it got reset. The abducted victim is going to be sacrificed to our inefficiency.'

'Damn', Greg groans, running a hand through his grizzled hair. He looks around wildly, desperate. 'My guys will take some time getting here. Sherlock, we need to – at least – try. You and I, do you think we stand a chance of pulling his off?'

Sherlock shakes his head gravely. 'No.'

Greg's expression falls, shattered.

'We need John as well', Sherlock adds just then. Probably for dramatic effect, but that's the last thing on my mind as the implications of what he just said assault me at once.

I shake my head briefly, to focus. 'Sherlock, I type with two fingers. I can't unstuck the blog's count and it's always 1895. The chip and pin machine mocks me daily... Why on earth do you think I could help?'

He sets his jaw tight, angrily, before grabbing the commands and jamming them against my chest. 'You'll figure it out. Not enough time to explain. Just play – you'll understand why.'

Blinking out of surprise, I take the commands in shaky hands. The metaphorical weight of my decisions is burdening. This will be considerably different for me than what it was for Sherlock and Greg. We know now what is at stake. _A human life._ Someone out there is scared, in life threatening danger and faces it all alone. An overwhelming need to _help_ drives me almost blindingly. And if Sherlock believes I stand a chance...

_Two fingers typist coming up._

I set the game on, as I'm taking an awkward seat on the floor, and fully immerge my attention in those bold colourful graphics.

The same cobble stone street, dampness glittering at the gas lamp lights, a foggy mist coming in patches. Or just plain industrial revolution smoke. Anyway, it covers the tracks of my enemies, too many in this game.

Crossbow figure turns up as usual and I fire instinctively. Its shape still falling to the ground, I'm already raising the camera angle to the overhead balconies on either side of the street. _There! _Two accomplices are taken out before they get me. _Easy._ If they had been insurgents, backups would be fleeing away to regroup. I can either hunt them down or let them get stronger while I take a recognisance mission to this virtual town. 'Sherlock?' I ask for advice.

He seems to read my mind. 'Leave it. We need to find something that can lead us to the abducted victim. It's the priority. We don't stand a good chance of finishing this game.'

I nod, _right._

Greg still asks, confused, as I run across the screen, jumping and ducking at times: 'Do you play a lot of videogames, John?'

I shake my head. _More of a real situation's experience._ 'Not at all.' But a gun is a gun, and I'm still a soldier at heart, instincts as sharp as when I was very far away from here.

Greg turns worriedly to Sherlock, then leaves us hurriedly for a minute, in a desperate attempt to coordinate the efforts of the real officers in the real world. There's a life to save, we believe, and a terrible countdown has begun.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	121. Chapter 121

_A/N: I actually don't play videogames. Or know if they should still be called "videogames". Yes, I'm at least __that__ old, and thought a retro reference wouldn't be too bad. (For an updated opinion on this, consult the next paragraph.)_

_I woke up feverish and with a nasty headache. So the flu must surely explain where this plot came from. (I'll roll with it as well as I can.)_

_At leat one more to go after this short one – still unwritten for now._

_Kindly remember English is not my first language. (Yeah, I know, not fooling anyone here.)_

_(I'm tired of commenting myself now.) Still not British, a writer or a gamer. -csf_

* * *

_**. 2nd**_

Dextrous hands that once performed surgeries and fought to save human lives are now engaged in repetitive strains, obeying the same split second decisions, in order to virtually shoot, slash or otherwise reap mayhem in a virtual world.

My game-self has been running, jumping, ducking and falling in a high speed blur for the last couple of minutes. Or more. Maybe ten minutes. Definitely ten. No more than fifteen, surely.

I try to glance at Sherlock, sitting on the floor by my side, at the dead victim's basement while I play the videogame, in the hope that it can bring us clues on a kidnapped victim's whereabouts. Sherlock is quite sure this threat is to be taken seriously. And that the kidnapped victim's life is at stake if we don't get to them before the end of the day.

So I've been running and fighting in the virtual world. Sherlock put me in charge of the plastic commands because of my marksman skills. However, he has not left my side for a second yet, as he tries to unravel the game's structure, its logic and weak spots, so we can win this. I'm the one running, weightless and powerful on an alternative reality, but he's playing along with me, pondering the strategy of it all.

DI Greg Lestrade keeps making little comebacks, since he's coordinating his team and liaises with other departments to find both the game's creator and the kidnapped victim. Actually, he's coming up right now, with a critical gaze to the colourful graphics on the screen.

'Focus, John!' Sherlock coaches me sharply as I glance to our friend. I look back to the screen with all my attention, feeling scolded. Sherlock takes the lead in the conversation, as sharply as he has addressed me: 'Postal services, Lestrade?'

'Still working on tracing the postal reference code', he says.

'Can they be any slower?' Sherlock snaps, irritably.

'They've only been on the case for half-an-hour, Sherlock!'

_Half-an-hour? Have I really been sat here all that long? Time flew by, as I kept myself busy._

'Focus', Sherlock repeats to me, this time without the same edge. His voice reveals companionship, sharing my burden.

Greg further reports: 'Molly Hooper is working on the body. So far no leads. You know she's good at what she does, Sherlock. If there's a lead, she'll find it.'

Sherlock hums distractedly. On the screen I'm being chased by outlaws on top of a steam engine bullet train. Brass knobs and latch windows glow in the steel riveted surface, in what would be a marvellous piece of artwork in other circumstances.

Like in all old style artworks, it's slightly exaggerated, missing the streamlined simplicity of the modern era. In its complexity, I'm desperate to find a weak spot. Something I can take down with an old musket and a knife.

_Oh, wait._

'Boiler', Sherlock says out loud, voicing the solution.

I turn my character back, jump onto the train, under simultaneous protests from both Sherlock and Greg, and run towards the boiler. Firing at the metal surface would only ricochet in the normal world, and I don't know if the same rule applies here. So I rather kick the feeding pipe with multiple real life key pressing. All the while I'm avoiding and fighting back new enemies that find it easy to attack me in my stationary position. _Wow, that would have really hurt in real life!_ Finally the pipe breaks and water comes pouring out of the steam producing boiler. _Done!_ I jump off the train as it overheats with the coal burning to an empty boiler, the pressure mounting with nowhere to be released, and it explodes as I reach the tracks left behind by the moving train.

That added new points to my score – and a black screen emerges.

On the basement cold floor, the three of us lean forwards to see what's next. Surely that wasn't the end of the game?

What am I thinking? _I hope it was._ Someone's life, a real life, is at stake.

_Never the less, it felt liberating to be so free in this game._

Then it comes up. The image changes to a real live feed of some darkened room, low ceiling (maybe a garage). Centred is the silhouette of someone bound by ropes to a chair. A woman, it seems. She doesn't appear to be harmed, but her apathy in the face of the camera and her circumstances is troubling. As soon as the image comes, it's gone, and it's replaced by a countdown digital clock.

_**4:00**_

'Oh, my—' Greg starts, stunned. Sherlock holds out an open hand in a firm gesture to shut him up. He's already closing his eyes and I can tell by the rapid movements under his eyelids that he's desperately cataloguing all the clues, weighing in all the probable places, searching in his mind map for locations for that garage.

I need to rip my attention from Sherlock as the screen changes back to the videogame. My score points, at the top, have doubled, but I don't feel any success. Not while she stands there, waiting to be rescued.

Tense, I want to call out my friends for help, but Greg is rightfully barking out orders to his people and Sherlock is being Sherlock. I hold my breath as I look around in apprehension in the new set.

Weird vintage freak-show circus theme. Still the same overly constructed Victorian imaginary setting, abusing the use of velvets, mechanics, lace and dark rich tones. It's still me – that is to say, my character appears to be unchanged – as multiple acts flood the stage where I virtually stand. From the medically rare conjoined twins to the politically incorrect bearded lady (in a attractive corset to maximise the contrast), going through more common place circus animals with a twist (they appear as mechanical beats) and a trapeze artist with half his body mingling with mechanical contraptions (prosthetics?). This is someone's messed-up alternative universe to distract us from the terrible reality. Worse than that, we still hold no clue as to how to end this game – _both games_.

_I wish Sherlock could explain this already._

But Sherlock is otherwise engaged. He snaps his eyes open and shoots a handful of possible addresses from his memory reconstruction of London.

Greg's men look at the DI waiting for his signal. He nods at once, in full trust and they set off. _I wish I could join them instead._

'How do you know?' Greg still asks Sherlock.

'All those locations are at the end of the underground lines', he explains like it's the simplest thing in the world.

'How do you know where to look?' Greg frowns.

Sherlock tilts his head towards the gaming system. 'Those are our clues. The whole game was designed to give us clues. The more we play it, the more clues we'll have.'

Greg nods slowly. 'So, the dead guy. He saw the live feed of the woman. That's what kept him playing. That's why you called him a hero.'

'He wouldn't give up', our friend agrees then glances at me furtively. 'Heroes won't give up.'

'Till he died.'

'In his defence, he wasn't counting on it. He didn't know he was straining a heart condition.'

'Why didn't he call the police?'

'Because he didn't have a phone with him. He lived shying away from the rest of the world, remember? And if that game John's playing now isn't acted on for over five seconds, it resets itself to start all over again', Sherlock explains. 'And she'd never be found.'

Greg comments: 'I remember playing a game when I was younger where we needed to win challenges to rescue a princess... This is taking the concept a bit too far.' He sighs deeply. 'Sherlock, are we dealing with a new Moriarty-type bored villain?'

He bites back an instinctive smile. 'Maybe.'

'Sherlock...' Greg warns.

'One thing is for sure', Sherlock opens his eyes wide with vibrancy, 'I'm not bored anymore!'

'Sherlock!'

'Oh, and Lestrade, look first on the addresses closer to the zoo or the natural history museum. John needs to defeat a mechanical elephant next.'

Both Greg and I sigh at the same time.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	122. Chapter 122

_(A/N) Context: John is stuck playing a videogame, for a life._

_Sorry, turns out it's not the last one yet. Getting there._

_Still not British, a writer or a gamer. -csf_

* * *

_**. 3rd**_

Greg got me coffee and a Scotland Yard cardigan to place over my shoulders, in the three consecutive hours I've been playing this videogame. 'Ta, Greg.'

'Not much of a detective, is he?' Sherlock asks when our friend leaves, with an intent gaze stuck on my movements and then on my reaction.

'What?' I ask back, confused. 'Greg?'

'He got you coffee because you look tired. Which shouldn't surprise anyone given the circumstances.' _Is he jealous?_ 'The excessive amount of caffeine got your hands shaking. So it's all quite plain, no foresight was required.'

I blink tiredly, while I repeatedly press the "jump up" command. 'I was cold, actually', I comment. 'Not all the caffeine's fault.'

'Oh', Sherlock rounds the vowel to a perfect letter O. 'Why didn't you tell me that?' he asks, genuinely curious.

I glance at my friend for an instant and immediately return all my attention to the high speed colourful game. 'Common sense, mate', I mumble under my breath.

He uncomfortably pulls closer together his jacket's sides around him. Either feeling cold or awkward.

'You need to tell me these things', he points out honestly. 'You are John, you always help me with them.'

I sigh, annoyed all of a sudden. Short-fused by exhaustion, I vent: 'Maybe I didn't want you to know? Ha?'

_Wait, what?_

He scrunches his whole face. 'Why?' He's asking me why are we short of a team, with all the calm in this world. Again, asking me to clarify the social interactions for him, relying on me to do all _that_ thinking.

'Because we're on a bloody countdown to catch a murderer before he kills again and I'm totally worn-out – _and there really should be someone in the whole damned Scotland Yard who'd volunteer to take these bloody commands off me!_'

I'm stunned by my own explosion, that leaves me gasping for air. Lovely, now I'm alienating myself from everyone at the Yard...

Not many sympathetic stares my way. Mostly I'm ignored – politely, like I've just grown another head. It makes me more jittery, and cross, and upset, and resentful. I try to steady myself, pursing my lips thin, setting my jaw.

'You're doing fine!' Sherlock minimises, completely ignoring my exhaustion and subsequent confession.

_Like speaking with a toddler..._

_**.**_

**1:00**

This time no video feedback appears. There's a sigh of relief running down my back. I cannot forget what I'm fighting for, but if I don't see it, if I can compartmentalise it to a lost corner of my awareness, then all this alienating graphic atmosphere of the game becomes almost pleasant.

I smile, realising Sherlock might not be reading the fulfilment that runs unchallenged through my soul as I play this game, beyond the restrictions of my physicality. However, he's been able to sense that I've slowly been fading out of reality's grasp. Every once in a while he engages in small talk, he makes me focus on something concrete from his side of the screen, so to keep me anchored and gage my dissociation. Maybe even measure by estimation my breathing, reflexes, blood pressure, all at a glance. He often does that in the middle of the most ordinary conversations. I think he's doing it right now, as he sits on the floor by my side facing towards the same screen, so to see if this used-up soldier can keep up with the physical strain of hours of immobility in general, and the frenetic effort in a selected bunch of muscles and tendons.

_I can take it, Sherlock. There's no alternative, after all._

It's taking a toll on me, Sherlock, but it hasn't won me over yet.

Scotland Yard's best technicians are on their way here, to relieve me. Meanwhile Sherlock will not allow anyone else but the best to steer the fate of this game. No one except for me, that is.

_**.**_

'John, are you hungry?'

I ignore Sherlock, or Greg – the messenger. I saw Greg signalling to Sherlock, prompting him to question me. Don't really care. The game is more important.

'John, please talk to me.'

Hardly even notice how my hands have begun to shake, minutely but persistently. I'm not fooling myself to believe that it can have escaped Sherlock's trained eye. He must have noticed, but he won't allude to it.

The game is absorbing – not addictive, I wouldn't say that – and combined with the real life burden it carries, I've been letting me fall into its trap.

Besides, I'm a former soldier whose time in the battlefield has been cut short abruptly by a bullet wound to the shoulder, turned bad. A part of me shines in this alternative universe war setting, making me fight, and run and be free in a protected manner. No PTSD invoking triggers, because this is the same old adrenaline release in a completely different packaging, detached from reality into a smaller screen. A part of me actually enjoys this. An amoral irresponsible part of me, that manages to forget the consequences, absolutely keens and shines with this intensive rush. No more aching old tired bones, no limits of fitness to a injured body. In here I'm free to shine at what I do best. And Sherlock may disagree, but I know that I was born to fight. Fate might have made me exchange the foreign battlefields for the dangers of London, but at heart it's not at all that different. Give me a worthy cause and I'll pour my heart and energy into it. I may even pour my soul into it as well.

This game is not addictive.

I'm hooked because this is where I'm free.

Sherlock wouldn't understand that.

He wants to keep me safe. I already feel like a ticking bomb ready to explode. If there was a glimpse of real action at grasp I'd give myself to it without a second thought, at the moment – a dangerous reality for a former soldier, removed from the battlefield due to severe injuries.

I don't think it's the caffeine or the cold keeping me shivering despite Greg's generous offers. It's all the pent-up energy of a born soldier denied of his calling, urging to go back into action.

_Sherlock mustn't know. He wouldn't understand._

_**.**_

**00:35**

The illusive time, constantly flowing out of our grasp, has pushed me to the edge. I've psyched myself out. All my effort - useless!

'Hold the commands, Sherlock. I really need a break... Don't get me killed.'

My friend turns white as a sheet before I can even realise what I've said. _Don't get me killed._ Come one, Sherlock! We've both come very close to death together, but I never believed you pushed me into it. I always entered the dangerous zone with my eyes open, I always take responsibility.

Is he just frightened for this idea that one day – maybe soon, who knows? – I can get killed?

Did he just compare me with the gamer victim that died on this very spot?

_**.**_

**00:20**

'How's it going, Sherlock?' Greg returns, crestfallen and heavily burdened. Even if Sherlock hadn't told me, one look at his body language would suffice to tell he has been unsuccessful so far.

'John is being stubborn', the consulting detective replies. Perhaps sulking.

'That's John alright', Greg replies cautiously. 'What is he doing that's bothering you, Sherlock?' The DI starts again, patiently, after eying me carefully.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and readies himself to vent out. I'm expecting a good old fashioned bashing like when I tell him to eat, sleep, or I am otherwise contrary to his isolation instincts. Instead, I'm taken a bit by surprise when he reports, pondered: 'I may have put John in harm's way, unwillingly, when I asked him to take the controls.' It comes across like a confession, in the hope of advice. _It doesn't sound like Sherlock at all._ For a moment I'm left to wonder if this is a manipulation. Sherlock is good at those. Maybe Sherlock wants me to hear this, so I'll take his side and he'll push me into continuing this impossible situation. But that's hardly logical, when he wanted me to quit just a few moments ago. Something or another about my health and lack of responses. I saw a torn man, between moral duty and my wellbeing. Negotiations were difficult; when he was about to forcefully remove me from this position and contribution in order to "snap me off". No, this is about something else, definitely. Does he really believe I'm in some sort of danger while I play this game? But what? The gamer victim died of a congenital heart defect. Sherlock deduced that. I have none of those. I've been regularly tested at the army, and even afterwards in annual check-ups. I shall not suffer Death by videogame.

Greg never answered Sherlock, I notice. Instead, they must have been sharing those all too customary heavy expressions they are suddenly so fond off. It's to see them bond as friends, just a shame they do it over silly inconsequential things like me, playing a videogame. Maybe it's because they got their own game-selves killed within the first seconds.

Yeah, _jealous_, I guess.

'Sherlock, you know John better than I do. Possibly, better than anyone in London.'

'Definitely', my friend agrees with no modesty at all. There's even a hidden glow, prideful, in his voice. 'Addictive personality, yes.'

_Who, me? What? No! _Not at all.

Just a bit stubborn.

'It's all over his life story', Greg comments. 'Even the war. He kept going back and he wanted to. Getting retired should have been a relief to any good soldier. He's done his part for his country, maybe even more than it should be asked of one single person. But John, I'm sure he wanted to go back. He said so, on occasion, and I could tell he meant it. Even those years as your sidekick, the blind allegiance and the honourable selflessness...'

_I'm not a sidekick, Greg. I'm not in love with the War either. No one could ever be. That's a stupid romanticise notion. No one wants to live at a warzone. There's too much pain, hurt, misery and destruction in it._

_Can my friends get me anymore wrong? I thought they actually knew me, I'm starting to seriously doubt that..._

'John's addicted to danger', Sherlock states, as plain as it comes, no softening, no embellishments either. 'He craves danger like I crave mental stimulation and puzzles. But don't think he's an addict. He's highly intelligent and sophisticated. He's got strong morals and a sense of loyalty. Had it not been for that, he'd be a lot happier', Sherlock actually comments, with his clean rationality. 'Danger is easy to find, in every corner. But he's not a thug. He's a man on a mission. He's always been.'

'Instead he fights dangerously for what he believes in.'

'Making him heroic to society's eyes', Sherlock finishes. 'This game, Lestrade, it fulfils all the criteria.'

'I can see that.'

'Instant gratification with no apparent drawbacks. No pain, no exhaustion, no cleaning up the mess afterwards, complete detachment from reality. What is there not to like for John?' There's a strain and sadness in my friend's voice that runs deeper than this casual deduction for manipulation's sake. I put it all in the back of my mind. Can't allow myself to be distracted by the pair of them. _Can't they just let me have this without spoiling it for me?_

'John, we are worried about you, mate', Greg speaks directly to me, subtleties be damned.

I roll my eyes and sigh audibly. _Almost done, Greg!_ Saving a life, remember? I'm not the one giving up, here. All that time to go that has crumbled down to pieces, I can rebuild it, I know I can, and it's going to be twice, thrice, as fast. I just need them to give me the chance! _Don't unplug me!_

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	123. Chapter 123

_(A/N) Context: A game for a life._

_Yet again, not the last one, getting there. (I feel like a liar now, but I had no intention nor profit from repeatedly stating it's close to finish)._

_Still not British, a writer or a gamer. -csf_

* * *

_**. 4th**_

**00:17**

'Drop, John!' Sherlock yelled, all absorbed in the game.

_I'm trying, Sherlock! Just let me do this!_

Desperately I try to rid myself of a coordinated attack, multiple enemies coming at me from all directions - then I take a hit, energy levels halved (and in real life my bust shoulder twitches sympathetically) - now I'm retreating to preserve my game-life_, so a real life can be spared_, I'm running and jumping as fast as I can, frenetic swirls of colourful graphs, and I'm turning nauseous from the constant striking inputs but I can't let myself fall - they are gaining on me, I'm losing now, I need to do this more than anything else I've done in my life - and then suddenly, as I'm ducking from a knife thrown at me, another is coming at me and-

**Game over.**

For a moment we all freeze, desperately. Everyone in the room as their breaths on hold. But I'm the one crushed to pieces. _No, no, no..._

_Doesn't feel all that different from when I lost lives - friends, comrades - in the surgical table, in a distant battlefield._

I hug myself with my arms and rock forward as if I was hurt, like I had been just shot, but all I feel is lost and empty inside. I hardly notice I've closed my eyes; it doesn't matter, there's nothing out here I want to see right now.

Accusing, reproaching looks across the Yard team. They can't hurt me as much as my own self-recrimination.

'I told you to drop yourself down the drainage system, John!' Sherlock explodes out of frustration and it feels like the pain multiplies like glass shards exploding over me with the shame of my friend's telling off. 'How hard could it be? _Just drop it, John_, that's all you had to do!'

'I did my best', I protest under my breath - but my best could never feel enough given the outcome.

_This game is not that different from the war, after all._

I stand up straighter, jaw set, stoically letting the rumbling aftermath of my miserable failure hit me.

The gaming system's screen remains black, oblivious to the terrible things that may be happening in some old garage to an unnamed kidnap victim. _I'm so sorry I failed her._

Greg steps in to our little corner, heavy in his most stern expression, trying to look collected but he's as frazzled as the rest of us. 'Sherlock, cut it out!' he practically orders. 'John did his best.'

_This doesn't sound like Sherlock at all. He usually looks so composed no matter the circumstances. _This horrible slow torturous situation has taken its toll on him as well. Usually Sherlock is the most supportive.

Sherlock turns on Greg, ticked off by his collected demeanour at this time, as if he was siding with me in pretending none of what happened really matters. _Of course it matters a lot, Sherlock_. 'John lost sight of his goal. He started playing because he _enjoyed_ _it_. He forgot the reason. _She_ is the reason!' he points viciously at the game's screen, where my character reappears and remains waiting. Finally Sherlock turns on to me, full of intensity and passion. 'She needs you, John. _Move the cursor_. Start again.'

I obey instinctively, barely avoiding the game to shut itself down for the lack of interaction. Sherlock insists: 'If you stop there will be another victim, you're a doctor and a soldier. _Make the maths already!_'

I feel his harsh words, born of despair and frustration, burning me like ice water. I've always looked up to Sherlock, because he's a genius, he saves lives, he has a great heart. I've always thought he looked back at me with respect. Not as an equal, surely – I wouldn't expect that, I'm just John, definitely not a genius and much more average – but I've always believed he fondly thought I was at least a bit above the common man. That he saw some greatness in me, in my own particular way, because that's what friends do. Ignore a few flaws and enjoy the great stuff about me the other person.

_For once I realise I may be entirely too naïve._

But Sherlock is right in one thing; I need to start over. Prove to some unknown evil mastermind that I don't give up.

'How do you know there's a second chance, Sherlock?' I try to voice in my most assured voice, but it comes out tremble and frail - and I despise myself further for that.

Sherlock's demeanour is electric as he tells me, with all the vibrancy he'd confront himself: 'Because there are 14 minutes left, and so far you've been most entertaining to the mastermind. He'll keep playing his game so long as you do too.'

I think of the kidnapped woman and the horrors she might be going through, and shiver. 'I don't want him to continue', I'm truly honest, eyes wide.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, annoyed. 'Yes you do, John. If you keep him engaged he won't act prematurely upon his victim, he won't terminate her like the game. You are much more fun, with your unbreakable soul, moving along despite the severe crisis, than his victims' demise and the inconvenient search for a new victim. The mastermind isn't a killer in his heart as much as he is an artist in search for misguided human interaction with a kindred spirit. Like me with Moriarty. _This is your Moriarty, John._ Trust me, we need to keep playing his game till we gain enough leverage. We've got just over ten minutes and we need to make the most of that time. You need to keep playing and I need to excel at deducing.'

Suddenly I understand his harsh outburst was mostly directed onto himself. He keeps himself to impossible standards, high levels that we both are failing tight now - and I can't let hat happen.

A small flicker of hope is born in me. I need to trust Sherlock, allow him to make sense of the pieces of my crushed world; together we can rebuilt it.

_He did that once before already, when I had arrived in London, all hope lost._

_This is a different war that I'm returning from, shattered and beaten._

'We've got specialists here, guys!' Greg announces, as he returns to us with a small race. I glance over my shoulder, Sherlock turns protectively gaging their adequacy with one of his overall life deductions.

Of the three men following DI Lestrade, Sherlock raises a prohibitive hand to two of them and questions the third. 'Your father was an army man and you and a sibling spent a couple of years in a military boarding school, right?' He nods, bewildered. 'This one will do, Lestrade, he's the closest we've got to John's behaviour online. He knows strategy and has a creative albeit scattered mind too, as can be seen by the marks on his fingers from learning to play guitar on his spare time. By the way, your girlfriend will be most impressed', he offers the compliment through a deduction, belatedly trying to be polite - and sounding like a scary stalker, going by the young man's expression. 'John, walk him through your gaming mannerisms. We need to convince the mastermind that it's still the same player here.'

Greg doubts: 'And finally John can have a break?'

Sherlock looks down on Greg at once. 'Doubtfully he wants one. John is needed elsewhere. We are about to put the mastermind behind bars, inspector!'

I smirk dangerously - and I can't help but to feel relieved that Sherlock still trusts me at his side. _The Game is still on (the Game that matters, always has, not the distraction in the gaming system)._

'But he needs a break, Sherlock! Look at him! He's been playing for hours nonstop!'

Sherlock does look at me, but he's already having trouble concealing a smile. We both know I am willing to go bad guys hunting with Sherlock. _We've got scores to settle._

_**.**_

**00:06**

Detective Inspector Lestrade might very soon come to find out that he's missing his badge. Sherlock is sure that Greg was being annoying.

He will realise much faster that his police car keys are missing; that is, if he hasn't heard the noise of rubber tires burnt against that tarmac while still on the crime scene basement.

Assuredly, he'll vow to make Sherlock pay. It's so serious that he may actually call Sherlock's older brother so they, together, can plot against the kleptomaniac detective of Baker Street.

Right now, we couldn't care less. Sherlock has given me wheel, but I promise I wasn't the one blaring on the police sirens all the way. _Didn't ask him to stop it either._

The exhaustion, the aching muscles, the headache, even the tremors on my hands from hours of consecutive repetitive efforts are mostly gone. Only the old left hand tremor remains, hardly noticeable as the gear stick is racked by tremors of its own, responding to the high speed imposed on the motor.

'Good?' Sherlock reads in my facial expression. He means more than the high speed on the road. He knows the fresh air rolling in from the half opened window and colliding against my face. Even Sherlock's long curly hair is being rotated hazardously with the cross winds.

Together, it all makes me feel alive, and back into the battlefield, fighting and kicking. I don't give up, I won't. I never have to, especially with Sherlock on my side, urging me on to be all I am and more, every single time.

'Where are we going, Sherlock?' I shout over the roaring wind.

'To save a life, John!' he answers at once, in all humbleness. 'I deduced where to go from the clues in the game, but I came up with forty-six different places where she could have been held, assuming she's in the mastermind's hiding place. The fact that your efforts on the game were being monitored constantly implies that he is in fact quite close to her, for he doesn't want to part from the broadcast of the game being played to check or act upon her.'

'Sherlock, I played that game for hours, and I saw no clues!'

'Of course you did! You've been staring at them only too attentively!'

I roll my eyes, with little heart put into it. _You see, John, but you do not observe!_

'Well?...'

True to form, I know my friend doesn't require much incentive to explain his wonderful mental works. 'The character, John, what do you remember of it? What clues does it hold?'

'Victorian mechanics flair to it. Hm, Spanish musket, knife holster as well.'

He shakes his head. 'Pocket watch. Golden engraved casing, highly flourished. Too much time spent designing that piece in particular. Why? I thought it'd be a major element in the game, but it never came up. So, either an emotional link or a clue. Maybe even both. A treasured piece, a graphic design that probably exists in real life. It's not a common watch these days, a pocket one. Much more of a collectors' item, so I looked up on my phone registers from recent inheritance property changing hands and actions. Could be from a pawn shop, but that would be less easy to trace, so I didn't spend our precious time searching those. Prioritise, John, always prioritise. Balance of probabilities. I finally found an auction, but it was an anonymous buy. All I could trace was the area. East London. A clue, but not enough.'

I nod, mesmerised, as I cross a red light without hitting the brakes. I'm still too hyper up. Sherlock grasps the seat as if holding on for dear life. He seems to forget that I drove med evac convoy trucks through the desert, under serious risks of landmines and roadside ambushes. _Sometimes we just had to floor it._

'The musket', Sherlock gathers his wits very fast. 'Spanish flair, like you said. Possibly, a Spanish descendant. More to the point, a solid clue if I ever saw one.'

'A clue?'

Sherlock nods, imprinting me with the confidence he feels.

'It has all been in the game, John. Both this mad man's legacy and his universe. And now, we need to beat him in his own territory.'

My smile grows wilder. 'Heard you.' And I step on the gas, all the way down.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	124. Chapter 124

_(A/N) Context: Sherlock and John are finally taking control of the game._

_Last one (finally?)._

_As far as I know, I invented this location, based on the stereotype of several other lost places, foregone from their glory days. I confess to having a writer's kink for abandoned locations, halted in time, covered in dust and ghosts. And it can't always be a generalist abandoned warehouse, can it? AKA, no actual place's depiction or history was meant to be alluded in here. –csf_

_Ps. I'm really tired, been working like crazy, and this little stolen time for myself has been my treat. Unfortunately that means I may have let some continuity detail, logic reasoning, spelling aberration or another go by. Apologies if so._

* * *

_**.**__** 5ft .**_

**00:03**

'You don't know how to drive, John!'

Sherlock's words come embedded with some childish resentment. _Hey, I just got us here in under four minutes, I'd say it's a win in my book!_

We're furtively approaching an abandoned historical building, almost anonymous in the London's landscape due to successively postponed plans for intervention.

'The Spanish Theatre', I recognise, with some perplexity. It was built as a drama theatre, later became one of the first picture houses in the turn of the century London. During the World Wars it served as bomb shelter, later it took a turn for the worse when it became a varieties show host, tending only to adult crowds in the later days. It was condemned in its current condition a couple of decades ago, and remains the coveted target of intervention for several architects and art galleries, but still no further action has been taken to preserve the decadent structure or the craftily decorated façade.

'Late Victorian period?' I doubt my art's and London's outskirts history knowledge, as I try to contextualise it in the game's atmosphere. The silks, the brocades and the richness of the cloths in the mechanical circus challenge, were they alluding to this? 'And the Spanish part seems evident in the façade's artwork. So, all the game's details were based on this place?'

Sherlock nods, as he scrutinises the seemingly empty building. I would venture no one has been around for a long time, but Sherlock sees things I can't.

'Doesn't look quite the same as the game, though.'

'Artistic liberty.'

I shrug. I'm still hyperactive from the ride here in Greg's police car, and I urge to immerge myself deeply in action. These last hour's physical inertia have taken a toll on my mental sanity. No matter the high level of adrenaline – or even because of it – what I get now is not enough and I crave for danger.

'There!' Sherlock points a long thin finger in the direction of a lateral door. 'The hinges have been oiled. Who would do that if not to take advantage of the building?'

'Clandestine break-in?' I recognise it means the game's inventor has appropriated this place without permission.

'Don't mind if I do', Sherlock plays on my words, making himself invited in. And me. I wouldn't ever let him go in on his own.

Besides, there is all that restless energy running in my veins, long denied in front of a flat screen. This is my time to shine, unbidden, free. I'm a force to be reckoned with, ready to make this work.

Sherlock approaches the front door with all the boldness of Greg's stolen Scotland Yard badge. I come in the rear and position myself to deliberately hide his movements upon the lock. Still, any passerby would definitely think we are up to no good.

Luckily, no one seems to be around or notice us.

In two seconds Sherlock has hacked the lock and he lets me in first, coming right behind and banging the door shut after us.

**00:02**

Light is flowing in from a central skylight and through the cracks on the boarded windows facing the building's exterior. It's not much, but slowly, as our eyes get used to it, we find it to be plenty.

The eerie peacefulness of the building is a silent testimony of its former glory days, no matter how many cosmetic transformations it had during the decades. Work, effort, craftsmanship, has been put into every niche and turn, every deep brown wood carving and all the fresco treatments to the patterned walls. The once colourful velvets were deep blues, reds and goldens, the central chandelier still evokes grandeur with crystal pieces cascading down.

Suddenly, from across the top of the hall, where the mezzanine wraps itself inwards facing the main entrance, a sharp hissing sound cuts the air. At the same time, Sherlock is already pressing me down to the floor, where he's thrown me and himself, with no hesitation. A few metal arrows cross the air over our heads.

'What is this?' I whisper, my heart is racing its way out of my chest.

'The videogame comes to life', Sherlock answers solemnly.

'Traps?'

'Surely.'

'Are there more, Sherlock?'

'Certainly.'

I nod, harsh and decided. There is no time to waste, we need to move forward, taking every precaution.

_My left hand has finally come steady, no trace of the tremor that has been rattling it for the last few hours._

We rush up the main flight of marble stairs, bowed at the centre from years of wear and tear use.

'That way!' Sherlock says, after a couple of seconds studying the marks of the dust covering the floor on the first floor. The carpet we thread on is practically disintegrating under the weight of our footsteps, its rich blood red tones turned to mushy browns by time.

I follow on Sherlock's heel. At the lead, the detective takes out my faithful Browning from his coat pocket. I nod, in silent agreement.

No even ten seconds later, I'm already on an impatient lead myself, over the creaky floor.

**00:01**

'We need to hurry!' I whisper tensely at my friend, behind me.

Before he can answer, the floor creaks and heaves under the pressure of his weigh, swallowing him before I can reach out and grab him. I miss his coat's sleeve by mere millimetres.

'_Sherlock!'_ I scream as I turn around.

Like a bloody elegant cat, he manages to fall through the sudden gap and land on the floor bellow with minimal damage. Almost immediately he gets up, dusting his clothes away and checking his arms and legs' movements.

'_Go ahead, John!'_ he yells to me. _'I'll find another way around. We are pressed for time!'_

He's right, I know I have to go without him.

'Are you sure you're okay?'

'Yes!' he still answers, no matter the eye roll he gives me. He knows I wouldn't have gone otherwise.

We get parted due to the pressing circumstances, Sherlock keeping my gun. I can tell he's not thrilled with the idea of leaving me powerless as I set out to explore the rest of the theatre.

**00:00**

'Where is she?' I yell over at Sherlock.

'The cinema's projecting room, John! You're the doctor, you need to get to her! I'll go around!' Sherlock volunteers with generosity, generating a cold shiver at the pit of my stomach. I'd rather ensure Sherlock is safe, but that's not an option. Right now, there's a life to save and, has he pointed out, it's up to me as a doctor – in case we are on the brink of too late, crossed the detestable threshold. Besides, the kidnapped victim has been imprisoned most of the day, an impressive ordeal on anyone, sure to take its toll down to the deepest levels of the psyche.

'Be careful!' I shout back as I take on my mission, sprinting fast on my way down the amphitheatre I go into.

'John!' Sherlock's sharp voice cuts the air through the silent abandoned building. I glance over my shoulder at once, waiting to hear what he shouts to me. 'The other way!' he protests in audible disbelief.

_Oh._ I glance towards the huge canvas screen ahead of me, tainted by mould and aged to sepia tones. _Wrong way._ The image and light is projected from behind me.

I turn and race back up, desperately. I miss my faithful Browning. Hell, I even miss the plastic controls of the gaming unit. But no matter how powerless and alone I am right now, I _know_ I need to do this. _I need to save a life._

The harmless looking door standing between me and the projecting boot is locked and holds steady. _No._ I will not give up. A deep breath and a step backwards is all my luxury before I throw myself at the solid vertical barrier, jarring it on its hinges, with all the impact of a tackling soldier. I shake my head as my right hand side shoulder is bruised into submission. _Let's do it again._ I repeat the effort, harder this time, if that's even possible, and this try the door gives in and I'm projected inwards to the tiny room, flailing mid-air, and then land harshly on the floor.

I look up at once. _She's there._ Tied to a chair, quite alive, as she stares back at me in terror.

'It's okay', I beg her to believe me, as I scramble up to my feet. 'I came to help.'

In suddenly hesitant steps, almost shy because I don't want to scare her further, I move on forward, shortening the distance between us.

_I know a thing or two about forced captivity._ So I cut down to the chase:

'It's going to be okay, I promise', I tell her softly.

Her eyes narrow and a new light shines on them – I'd swear they have turned cold, as a lifeless steal gaze is on me. All my instincts flair at once. I know this is wrong, I just can't make it out yet. What I see in her face is hatred towards me and the lost remnants of a shredded humanity. Then it hits me. _This location..._

**Game over.**

She's sitting centred on the projecting room, facing the narrow window where the 8mm rolls of film usually got projected through. But that machine has been taken down. What she sees, framed by the small window, is the canvas screen of the cinema room itself. As I look over my shoulder, following that direction, the lights on the room grow dimmer and the screen comes to life.

There, on the big screen, sourced out of some modern HD gadget, is my game character, hopping up some stairs, getting away from the evil characters.

She's been watching the game – but why?

Most of all, how did she turn the feed on?

'Oh, shit.'

She's not the victim; she's the mastermind, playing the victim in a deranged game. She led us all to believe – me, Sherlock, Scotland Yard – that she needed rescuing, that her game needed to be played. _All the while she was playing us._

_The ultimate game._

We all assumed the game's mastermind was a man. Like Sherlock says: "there is always something..."

I take a deep breath, knowing without even turning back to her that she has a gun pointed at me. With her level of delusion, possibly a real Spanish musket.

'Why?' I ask out loud, wondering in the back of my mind where Sherlock is, if he can still save us both. If he can deduce this in time and act upon it.

'I was bored', she says with the casualness of a shrug. 'I got tired of making games for a living. People kept telling me games were not real life. So I thought I could fix that, make them real. Just for once, I'd feel alive in real life as I feel in the game's world.'

'Must have been quite a laugh', I comment. 'Did you watch me play?'

'Of course. Live feed from a hidden camera app on the gaming station. By the way, your friend is really cute, sharp cheekbones and all. Did he come too?'

_Not telling you that._ I frown and finally turn to face her. As I expected, the fake binding ropes are fallen to the floor on each side of the chair. 'You knew I stopped playing and you didn't do a thing about it. Then again, you never intended to kill the abducted victim, _yourself_.'

'I didn't stop the game then either. I've let the new guy play after you, because I knew you'd come here. Feels like a whole lot more fun to play live with you, John.'

She further rises her gun, allowing the dimmed lights from the cinema room to flicker over the metal surface of the gun.

Definitely an old gun, a collectible item. It's been a long time she's been recreating her game in real life.

Old guns are not my area of expertise, but if functional guns are, then I'd say this one works. I can see recent marks of cleaning and oiling. Don't think she's much with handling and tending to guns, and she has a heavy hand, but it should work. Two bullets, not much more space for more than that.

_Just about enough for Sherlock and I..._

'It works, you know', she confides, reading my mind. 'You are so very expressive, John. I could watch you play forever.'

'_John!'_

Sherlock's call catapults the action taking place next, like a set of sequential explosions. I take his forewarning to the letter on his unspoken words and duck under what I consider to have quite an explicit warning, verging on giving too much away. I don't doubt for a second that Sherlock is up to speed with the plot twist. Even if he wasn't he wouldn't quite be able to miss the peculiar gun in the woman's hand.

A small cylinder is making its way inside the small technical room, immediately releasing an odd cloud of bitter smoke. If I expected some smoke curtain, then I'd be disappointed, this is none of that. It's not more than a tin of soup, emptied and replaced with crumpled paper set alight.

_Where did Sherlock get the matches?_

_Sherlock, you're not smoking again! It's not good for you!_

I roll my eyes at his irresponsibility, as it ticks me off so much more than it's ordinarily do. In less than three seconds Sherlock barges in and together we get hold of the gamming murderer and tie her up with the handy ropes on the floor, making sure she won't escape this time. She's struggling to set herself free and Sherlock's taking possession of her musket and securing it.

'Sorry to interrupt you, I thought this would be faster. Seems we already had everything under control, John', he tells me politely, nonchalant.

_Sort of._ I'm coughing now, as the improvised some curtain gets a bit too enthusiastic. Sherlock puts it off by stepping on it repeatedly. Then he looks over his shoulder with a dark look to the mastermind of the game, and a slight hint of regret for putting the fire off when we could have just walked away.

She murdered several people to search for a connection with someone across the screen. In the end, her search led her to the ones that would find her and take her to justice.

_**.**_

Baker Street has never felt more enjoyable. These have been mad consecutive hours, and every fibre of my body is raging between stiffness and soreness.

'We've done good, Sherlock', I say out loud, but something in this case still feels bittersweet.

_The victim we saved turned out to be neither a victim or to be saved._

_All in a day's work._

I come back to the living room holding two cups of warm fragrant tea, one for me and one for my friend. He accepts the one I hand him with a bright light in his eyes.

'I see you hand is steady once again, John.'

Oh, that's right, being left-handed I handed him the mug on my left hand. And, of course, that was also the one with the sugar. Sherlock has quite the sweet tooth.

'Apparently so.' I opt not to elaborate. I go to take a seat on my customary armchair, that I indulge in calling mine. The mastermind gamer did say I was too expressive. Perhaps if I was able to keep my facial expressions under wraps—

'Don't change', Sherlock snaps at me, startling me, and I almost spill the hot tea over me.

'What?'

'You heard me. I don't have a habit of repeating myself, John.'

'Except when saying you don't repeat yourself so not to answer me.' I smirk at him.

'Well, every good rule needs an exception, does it not?' He smirks back at me.

'Look, Sherlock...' I glance at the lit fireplace, making 221B even cosier and the beloved refuge of a battered soldier. 'Thank you for all your help today. And I don't mean just the whole saving me thing, I mean – I'm thankful for that too, of course I am, it's just that it's sort of implicit that we have each other's back – thanks for going through it all with me. Thanks for being harsh and letting me know the truth, that the game was pulling me away from reality. You see, when I came back to London – and you know, of course you know, I mean, you where there and you gave me so much—'

'Me too.' He cuts me short, with an intense green tinge to his feline eyes.

'What... Sherlock? That makes no sense!'

'Makes as much sense as you do', he childishly teases me. I smile, feeling warm and welcomed in my mad friend's life.

'Okay, then.' I nod sharply and take a sip of warm tea. 'You're welcome.'

_**.**_


	125. Chapter 125

_A/N: It came out like this. Like always, I mean no disrespect on people who actually know what they are talking about, unlike me. I can only guess – and, sure enough, I do plenty of that in here._

_Ps. I heard the suggestions and appreciate them, but I'll need some time. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

_It's not about the fall._

_It's all about the comeback._

There were times I cracked under the pressure. Especially in those first days at Baker Street, loud noises undid me. Some smells as well. Bright flashing lights could also spring up unwanted memories. _I would never willingly let that show._ I only stiffened up, set my jaw, and pushed through. Sherlock might have noticed, but then again those were the brand-building times when his image was just starting to spread like wildfire through the internet. The more my viewers' numbers grew on the blog count, the more his name became known far beyond the confines of our satisfied clients. It made me smile. I truly enjoyed his (well deserved) success; it also distracted me from my growing pains. My shoulder seized up on occasion, other less known injuries flared up from time to time as well. Bills piled up and I couldn't quite get a grip on a job (this was before the clinic took me on). The outlook was definitely better than my odds on a battlefield or my time in physical therapy after I got rescued from the campaign hospital in Afghanistan. Still I couldn't quite catch up with the luck that was showering me, and I had some trouble accepting my safety – and dangerous life alongside Sherlock as well, just like I wanted it. I had some trouble accepting that I was _home_, and _whole_ again. Flashes from the past kept assaulting me in the most inconvenient times. One moment I was fine, putting the kettle on for tea, the next Sherlock's kitchen chemistry experiment would blow up in a huge banging noise and I'd find myself clawing at the worktop so I wouldn't run for cover, shivering from head to toe under the noises, the explosions, the screams, the smells. All so overwhelming, so _real_, even if logically I knew they weren't really there – _I_ wasn't really in the battlefield again.

After the first ever chemistry set explosion, Sherlock blurted out something about a success in proving that a strong alkaline was present in the victim's poisoned food. He then proceeded to run out of the kitchen, grabbing his scarf and long coat, swirling them on in his way down the stairs.

Leaving me taking deep breaths in the kitchen. Trying to overcome the nausea, the ringing in my ears, the frail vulnerability in my trembling limbs.

I'm also relieved Sherlock has left.

Slowly I drag myself down, back against the kitchen cupboards. Before I know it, I'm sitting on the floor, knees to my chest, rocking myself back and forth, hands pressed hard to cup my ears, but the sounds are engrained deep inside me so they won't stop. _They never stop. Not really. _I'm drowning while on solid ground, drowning in swirling memories of a past that will haunt me forever, weakening me to the core till there's nothing left inside me. Till I'm empty and cold, vacant and numb. It's like dying all over again, and it's painful because it's so excruciatingly slow.

'John?'

The uncertain quality in Sherlock's voice hardly permeates inside my brain at a moment when it's so muddled.

'Are you okay, John?'

I won't look my returned flatmate in the eye. Not now, not like this. Like a failure, so lost of composure.

_He must have noticed I haven't faithfully trailed behind him, and came back to figure out why._

'F-Fine, y-yeah...' I lie, as my only option.

'You don't look okay.' His honesty is painfully raw. 'John', he tries to impress me with his confidence, the one overflowing in his voice, 'tell me what I can do. _Please_.' Sherlock's voice trembles slightly in the last word, betraying a vulnerability I wasn't expecting in him. This is my fail-crash moment, not his. Why is he so _human_ right now?

I risk opening my eyes slightly and squinting at my friend. I expected him to be standing solidly in front of me. Instead I look up and see only the ceiling. Sherlock is further down, squatting in front of me, hands reaching out to the air on each side of me. I frown, confused. Is my balance so compromised that he's caging me with his hands from a small distance, in case I slump forwards or to the sides? He has posed himself to catch me, but he won't grab me, not yet, afraid that forcing me upright while my eyes were closed could be perceived by an ex-soldier as an attack. He won't add to my distress, apparently so obvious right now.

'S-Sorry', I mutter, as I immediately try to grasp my failing dignity and get up from my defeated position.

'Slowly, John. There's no hurry', he begs me gently, not at all looking assured about my decision to soldier on.

'I felt dizzy, that's all', I lie again, with my usual excuse. I'm a doctor, after all. I can make up some chemical imbalance based excuse for this episode.

'John', Sherlock infuses my given name with warmth, after giving the scorched kitchen table a glance. 'I should have warned you about the possible forthcoming explosion', he admits.

I smirk heavily. 'So, the great consulting detective made a mistake?' I grab on to that leverage he's giving me so to have a change of subject.

'Yes', Sherlock admits with obliging honesty and the facial expression of a repented child. It feels wrong, to see the cold logic man changing himself for me, to mask up my blundering performance.

'No, you didn't', I tell him, because he needs to know the maelstrom inside me isn't caused by him, it's nothing of his fault. _I'm damaged, Sherlock. It's nothing on you._

'Just drop it, John, cut it out. You are clearly not fit to get up yet, your eyes are still flickering around in spurs, following invisible movements of memories that are not present in this room, your breathing and heart rate are still accelerated just barely under the limits of healthy. Would you just stay on the ground for now?'

I shake my head desperately, seeing that my meltdown is so obvious. _Shameful. Pitiful._ I don't want to stay down. I'm not a victim. I'm a soldier and soldiers won't stay down, they fight on.

'Please, John', Sherlock clearly begs, as he's kneeling in front of me, staring right deep in my eyes with his green ones, intensity in his gaze so high that for a second I feel hypnotised and stuck to the kitchen's linoleum floor. 'That's it, breathe', he leads on. 'Just do what I'm doing, John. Can you do that?' I nod, feeling that involuntary trembling overwhelm me again. 'No, no, you're doing great. Don't go back inside your head. Stay with me, focus on me, John.'

_I want to do that. Sherlock represents safety in the ongoing war._

'You shouldn't have come back, you shouldn't have seen me like this.' I broke contact all of a sudden, and looked down on the floor instead. There's an acid stain on the floor, where the acid erodes it. Mrs Hudson won't be pleased. She—

I flinch under the sudden onslaught of fresh memories. _Must I relieve it all again? _My usual repertoire, my personal hell in ghostly motion pictures, but so much more because all my senses are falsely engaged on the past as well, and it only ends with a bullet crashing on me. This is where I'm heading, to unbearable pain, and misery, and a shattered life.

'John, that's quite rude. You're not paying attention to me.'

The comic aspect of his tone of voice shoots right through the foggy present reality and I chuckle instinctively. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock.' Before I know it, I look up, to my mad friend's face.

'Much better', he says, and I know he doesn't mean me complying with the social norms. Sherlock wouldn't care much for those. He means my engagement in this side of reality, maybe even the uplifting in my expression, the one he's scrutinising so carefully.

Will he ever trust me again, after the pitiful spectacle I am when I have these PTSD episodes? Can I ever be his faithful blogger if I can't hold it together?

'That's it, John, deep breaths. Let's try to make it to your armchair, shall we?' With a rarely seen softness he helps me up and to unsteady steps towards my chair in the living room. He won't lead me or carry me. Even his touch, where he's supporting me, is soft and strong at the same time. This is clearly my call to make, my decision to walk and reach my chair, there is no taking over from my friend. _I'm in control here_, he makes sure I know it too.

'Your case, Sherlock', I recall, feeling bad for him. Afraid that he feels he can't leave because of his psycho flatmate. 'You need to go.'

He shakes his head, all of his attention on me. _As if I was a case myself, a more curious case that trumped any other._ 'I solved the case, John.'

'Scotland Yard doesn't know that.'

'It's their job, they'll get there eventually.'

'You can't let a murderer go free.'

'Why not?' he deadpans. 'I said I solved the case.'

I tilt my head sideways. 'Sherlock...' Under my fingertips I feel the comfortable texture of my armchair. It helps ground me. My friend takes a casual seat in his own armchair, across from mine. 'You really need to go. Please don't let me keep you from going.'

'No, I don't need to', he insists, stubbornly. Just when I'm about to protest, he takes up his phone. 'I can text Lestrade. He's mildly annoying but vastly less aggravating then the rest of the Yarders. He'll follow my lead and get the criminal.'

I shiver, uncomfortable, but not because of my frazzled state. 'Tell him... Tell him I'm sorry for holding you back, will you? He needs to know you want to keep solving cases, he needs to know you have a good reason to fail to appear in person.'

Sherlock shakes his head, obstinately. 'No.'

'Sherlock, it's not a secret that I'm messed up.' _Not anymore at least, I've just been exposed._

'I'm the first person that ever witnessed something as personal as this partial episode. I can tell you never let anyone know. So I won't be the one telling Lestrade. I know a thing or two about having people gape at us like freaks. And despite the fact that you are none of it, people are idiots, and I won't make you go through that. You don't deserve it. John, when you are ready, one day, you'll tell Lestrade yourself.'

'Sherlock...' I sigh and close my eyes, feeling drained and exhausted. All of a sudden, under the constant rapid tapping on Sherlock's phone, I notice that I didn't go all the way in my regression. Not the customary way, at least. I didn't relive getting shot and wriggling in hot sand. Somehow, untrained Sherlock Holmes managed to break through the cycle and anchor me in the present time. He has become my lifeline out of his own accord. It leaves me confused, and utterly thankful.

'Perhaps you wouldn't oppose to me taking up my violin, John? I did warn you I like to play violin when I'm thinking.'

The idea of the warm melodic sounds of his music brings a faint smile to my face. He copies it at once.

'Please do. I'd love that.'

Sherlock nods, and without further words he gets up straighter and moves on to get his violin case. He left behind his phone, still unlocked, and in a desperate move I reach it with my hand, rotate so it'll face me and glance at the screen. It's still set to the text messages between him and Lestrade.

"_The poison is alkaline kitchen sink cleaner. If husband smells of lemon cleaner, arrest husband. Proceed without me. John and I are busy. –SH"_

I shake my head, a chuckle erupting from deep within me, from some innocent place I thought I had lost forever. "John and I are busy", Greg must be laughing his head off. _Oh, Sherlock. People will definitely talk..._

_**.**_

Instinctively I know the day to tell Greg Lestrade about my lingering PTSD echoes has come. And, much to my content, it's not because I've been exposed shamefully for what I cannot keep myself from experiencing and displaying. Luck would have it that there comes a time when all the dark shadows of a bad situation owned by one person can become a shared experience, all for the benefit of the next person.

Like Sherlock said that first day, there would be a time when I would feel comfortable telling Greg.

It just so happened I never got that chance to tell Sherlock. Either he deduced it on my face (or the way I cut my hair, or buttoned my shirt the morning we met) or he came face to face with it after that first chemistry set explosion (and many more succeeded it), the fact is that Sherlock wasn't explicitly forewarned about the ghosts I carry in me. Chance played a major role in it. Luckily he's a good man and a good friend, so he rose up to the occasion that sprung up on him. After all, it'd have been so easy for him just to turn back around and leave Baker Street without me knowing he had seen me. Most people would have. Perhaps even suggest I'd find new accommodation elsewhere, as well.

_At the time I'd have appreciated it too, being the easy way out of a vulnerable circumstance._

Instead, Sherlock was respectful, almost reverent, about the former soldier he was learning about in short violent glimpses.

Tonight we are still a close tight unit, as we share a crime scene Greg called us onto. We came to investigate a murder and got confronted with something entirely different. There's a body, alright. But there's also a life to save, and this time it belongs to the murderer.

'I'm sorry, John, I though you could reason with him. He's wearing an army uniform, after all', DI Lestrade shyly calls upon me the responsibility to calm down a raging and screaming young man, walking around in circles like a caged beast, locked in some personal delusion. 'Although I'm not sure he's not high on drugs, right now', Greg adds, fairly.

The corporal sees us and shouts a warning: 'Get down, now! Incoming fire! For the love of—'

I shiver slightly at the raw terrified tone of this man's voice. His pupils are dilated, his sweating, his movements are less than balanced. I recognise the fear I've often seen in the battlefield. But not in London. In a glance I recognise a fellow sufferer. I swallow dry and take a couple of steps forward. _This could be me._

_This _is_ me._

'Corporal!' I call out sternly, to get his attention.

'Sir!' he shouts back, after a slight moment when he stiffened further.

'Identify yourself, corporal!'

'Corporal Chandler, sir!'

I'd ask for more identification but I can sense the paranoia growing in him. In his personal theatre of war I'm not a welcomed new face. Instead, I square my shoulders and take a deep breath. 'Corporal Chandler, I'm Captain Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers', I identify myself. Distractedly I notice that behind me Greg stiffens as he hears my commanding tone of voice, and Sherlock just seems to melt in the background, almost too comfortably confident in my abilities.

The corporal hesitates for barely a moment, then raises his hand in military salute. I briefly salute him back, nod sharply and release my salute, so he can release his. 'At ease, soldier', I tell him, warmly. _Your job there is done, stand down, come back to us._

'Doctor Watson?' Sergeant Donovan interrupts, stepping closer to the standoff, bewildered.

'Let him', Greg stops her. 'He knows what he's doing.'

I huff bitterly under my breath. Yes, I do._ It's like a second nature to me. It's like I never left._

My small success is suddenly demolished as I see Chandler ducking for cover under a nearby table, all his ghost war paraphernalia memories looming over him again.

I turn back to Greg at once. 'Give me time. He's not high. He's under delusion.'

'Schizophrenia?' Greg asks, taken aback. Must people always assume these other mental conditions are the cause? Can't a regular guy break? I've seen plenty of that, so I know one can break from reality alone.

I shake my head curtly. 'PTSD episode, most likely.'

By my side, Sherlock introduces himself at once: 'That man is a war hero, treat him with the respect he deserves, Lestrade.' I notice Sherlock's words apply to both army men at this crime scene.

Greg shakes his head. 'That man is a murderer', he comments dryly about the other one, concern heavily laid in his expression.

'Not him.' Sherlock dismisses curtly. 'The murderer was considerably shorter, you can tell by the penetrating angle to the fatal bullet wound. Also, luckily, that soldier doesn't have a gun. He was triggered when he witnessed the murder. Your murderer, Lestrade, he is actually the witness to the homicide. So let John do what he does best.'

'Be a doctor?'

'Be John Watson', Sherlock answers cryptically.

I take a deep steadying breath and glance one last time at the man under imaginary fire. 'Greg...' I insist. 'I know what goes on in his head. I can help. What he sees and lives, I have been there myself.' Suddenly I realise I'm so used to detracting my confessions from people's attention that I haven't quite owned up to the truth. I could leave it like this – I know what he goes through because I've been to the war – but it's not enough. Not anymore. I exchange a look with Sherlock, seeing noting nothing more than complete confidence and support from my friend, before I confess carefully: 'I know what PTSD is like personally because I've experienced it firsthand. Truth be told, sometimes I still do. Don't think I'll ever be as fortunate as to have it just go away, Greg. I can help corporal Chandler because I know how it feels.' _I've been in his shoes, Greg._

Our DI friend seems taken aback. He starts saying something, then stops himself short, finally deciding that whatever he wanted to say fell short of truly comforting. Instead, he gives me his vote of confidence and orders his team to back down further. His glance back at me, the one I'm waiting for while holding my breath, is respectful and compassionate, easing me further. _Thanks, mate._

'Corporal', I announce myself again, 'this is John. Can we talk?'

'Who are you?' he glances at me, frightened and lost.

'A fellow fighter', I admit out loud, with ease, at last.

_**.**_


	126. Chapter 126

_A/N: Definitely not a classic. -csf_

* * *

_**. First part of Two .**_

Night has fallen over Baker Street. The empty roads are quiet and there are few to no lights on inside the houses on either side. Greg Lestrade and I are the only ones crossing the street towards 221, filing the quiet night with the sound of our footsteps over the frosted pavement.

Well, mostly Greg's footsteps. Out of an old habit I tend to wear quiet rubber sole shoes, which make my walk stealthier. Oddly appropriate for our mission tonight. We won't be entering 221B through the front door. In fact, we're about to sneak in, unannounced.

Rapidly we head towards a corner alley further down Speedy's cafe. I round it till we are close to 221's back entrance, Greg is right on my tail.

'No going back now', I mutter to my friend and we both share a knowing smile.

'Are you sure this will work?' the DI still asks me.

'Sure', I state briefly.

I nod towards a well camouflaged cctv down the alley. Greg notices my brief movement and follows my gaze to the device. He frowns. 'Did you need to do that?' he admonishes me. 'Last thing I need is to get into trouble for this', he whispers roughly. I smirk to pacify him.

'Trust me, I needed to do that. It shuts down the alarms.'

'Alarms?' Greg repeats, sounding more and more confused.

_Must I explain it all?_ I sigh, very much like Sherlock does when people demand he explains his fast deductions.

'Yes. The facial recognition programme sets off automatically. That means John Watson has been located behind 221B. Take, for example, that I was fighting off assailants. A second programme is set off when I'm recognised, that searches for micro-expressions as markers for potential threats. Anger, fear, pain – all of those set it off. No need for me to say a word. The same goes for Sherlock, of course. He's the reason for this level of surveillance in the first place.'

'You didn't smile to the camera', Greg points out, blankly.

'Well, I arranged a different shut down signal. I only need to nod.' Then I glance down at my shoes, embarrassed. 'Last time I smiled, but I was still _cross_ because I had to knock out three huge blokes that stormed on me out of nowhere, and so the camera picked up on that... You don't want to see all the emergency services Mycroft deploys this way if his baby brother or the blogger are in trouble, Greg... It included helicopters and fire engines all at once.'

'So, this is Mycroft's hand', my friend assures himself.

'Naturally. Mycroft can't spend his whole day scouring security cameras across London, can he? He does... something or another at the government.'

This time Greg can't even find words to answer. Possibly stunned by how much power Mycroft Holmes has. And how the two Holmes brothers combined have. We are all amateurs when compared to them, even Greg and I in our little home invasion. But then again, the Holmes are also constantly under threat. _That makes my job quite clear, the way I see it._

Greg is still working out the maths, I realise, when he starts over: 'So, not even you can break into 221B, John, without being followed by the electronic eye over there?'

I nod, as I start to push over a big bin on wheels towards Mrs Hudson's tall back fence.

'Well, I could be under coercion to let enemies get in to get Sherlock. That almost happened once. Well, when I say "once"...'

'Shit', Greg mutters under his breath eloquently. He's looking at me full of some sort of respect – _and it bothers me. I'm just John. Sherlock's friend. I do my best to live a simple life._

'Yeah, well, you can imagine it's also little fun when you lock yourself out of 221B. But that was before. I don't share 221B anymore. And all these security procedures have been perfected since.'

Together, we place the bin in the most favourable place to use it as stepping ground to jump the fence.

'John, how was it? When you lived with Sherlock? Didn't he drive you insane?'

'No', I answer too softly. 'I'd rather say it was the other way around. I must have drove Sherlock almost insane.'

'I seriously doubt that', the DI deadpans.

'Sherlock's got his own way of doing things, of seeing the world. I came into his life and completely jumbled that logic upside down.'

Pushing myself on my elbows I cross a leg over the fence and jump in.

'John', Greg still protests behind me, as he copies my moves. 'I'm sure you did a great deal of good to Sherlock. You made him eat, rest, and live a more normal life. Hell, you brought him to reality as he was fast steering away from it. Not to mention you gave him a sense of right and wrong.'

I curl a fist in anger, by my side. 'Common misconception.' I turn on Greg as soon as he lands inside. 'Sherlock never needed me to tell right from wrong. Next you're going to tell me you believed his "high functioning sociopath" crap?' I snap angrily.

'Okay', Greg sustains easily, 'Sherlock knew the difference all along. But you, John, helped to seal his fate. Without you he might have become some other bored Moriarty.'

My hand curls even further, fingernails biting into my palm. 'Definitely not. You do him a disservice believing that, Greg.'

The DI insists: 'Trust me. I've known him for a longer time. A mind like his is too restless, it becomes a burden. He ends up doing stupid things to relieve that boredom.'

_To feel engaged._ Yes, I know Greg is right to some extent. Sherlock craves mental stimulation to keep him connected, alive, _whole._ But I believe I know his _heart_. Sherlock's core is _good_.

I may know him for less time than Greg has known him. And Greg has never fully detailed how Sherlock was like in his wild years, when the DI first came to meet him. But I cannot believe he changed that much. Much less that I could ever be pinned as the catalyst for that change.

'Trust me', Greg insists darkly, still not wanting to breach Sherlock's confidence.

_No, I know Sherlock for real._ No one can ever convince me I don't.

'I know he did mistakes, you know', I tell Greg, before we head to the fire escape behind 221B.

'Danger nights, you call them, yes. I figured you knew, John... Did he tell ya?' he asks me, trailing behind.

'He would have told me, eventually. Mycroft beat him to it. Despite the cold bastard act, Mycroft really cares about Sherlock.' I ponder what I said for a second and correct it: 'In his own special way.'

'Yeah, I figured as much', Greg sighs. I turn back to him, surprised. 'Well, Sherlock never actually chinned him after all the murderous looks between them.' I chuckle.

'Seen a lot of Sherlock and Mycroft banters, then?'

'Like I said, I've known Sherlock a longer time than you have. Mycroft Holmes rarely came into the picture, and when he did, sparks flew instantly.'

I nod, in agreement, mostly to myself. By now we are mostly at 221B's level, and by the kitchen window. It's a bit smaller than I recalled, and there is a long test tube rack just on the inside sill – and lord knows what I'm unleashing just by spilling them on my way inside Baker Street.

Maybe next time I'll try the chimney, like a modern day version of Santa.

'You wouldn't stand a chance, mate', Greg scolds me, reading my mind. 'Yes, it's Christmas season but don't get too frisky with your wild ideas, John.'

I roll my eyes as I force the kitchen window's latch open. 'I'm not the one who phoned me to tell me that Sherlock was bailing out on Christmas this year.'

Greg mutters, conspiringly: 'Thought you'd want to know. We had a great party the other year and I'm quite sure it wasn't Sherlock's own idea.'

'No, he kept telling me it was _absurd'_, I recall with a soft smile as I reach for the test tube rack and push it aside. Next thing, I'm sneaking in bodily through the bottom of the small two pane window, just right over the sill and the kitchen counter. I can hear my bust shoulder crackling as I worm my way in. Damn my broad shoulders! Last thing I need is to get stuck burgling my old pad!

'Told you we should have used your old key', Greg starts behind me. _Really useful comment, Greg!_

'Sherlock borrowed it, I don't have it.'

'Sherlock has his own key.'

'Yeah, I think he was making sure I didn't pop in whenever I wanted.' There's a small silence behind me as I manage to get my shoulders past the window frame, and I grab onto the worktop to push myself in.

'John, why would a bloke want to keep his best friend out of his pad? I mean, you lived here. You've seen it all. So it's not about the body parts or the science experiments. And this is Sherlock we're talking about, so it's not about sex. If he even does that – and I don't want to know. Has he been acting weird lately?'

I jump off to the kitchen's linoleum floor with a sigh of relief. Rubbing my shoulder, I assure Greg: 'No relapse, I'm sure. I'm a doctor, I can tell. Sherlock just wants to be alone.'

'Lonely?' Greg returns cryptically.

'Yeah, he wants to be that too.' I cross my arms in front of me, stubborn. 'I won't let him be all alone. We're his friends.'

Instead of allowing my solemn promise to ring inside 221B's walls, Greg calls out. 'John, a little help? I'm stuck!' I glance rapidly at him, surprised. 'I need to cut down on the pints at the pub', he realises.

'Right. Give me your hands...'

I hold my partner in crime's hands and pull him inside. Inch by inch I gain leverage and Greg manages to get inside.

In a minute Greg is patting away the dust on his clothes, inside the kitchen at last. He tells me, worriedly: 'I hope he's fast asleep like you said, John.'

I also peek down the corridor to Sherlock's room, with the door closed.

'I'm sure. He was about ready to collapse, Greg. This case has run him down hard. The kidnappers kept getting away and the children's lives were at stake... He hasn't slept and hardly ate for 72 hours. That's how long it took him to solve it.'

'You kept bringing him food and making him tea, John', Greg points out.

'I'm a doctor, aren't I?'

'He snapped at you, every time you told him to eat.'

I smile softly. 'Yes, but he ate some, none the less.'

'Haven't got a clue how you can be so patient, John.'

I shrug. 'He's my friend', I state simply, as I pull the backpack through the window. 'Go on, Greg, we're on a mission. Kitchen or living room?'

He opens wide his brown eyes. 'Living room. _Please._'

I chuckle. 'Alright.' From the backpack I gather tinsels, holly, tea lights, fairy lights, baubles and all sorts of Christmas-y decorations. 'Spread them around, I'll give you a hand once I get the food going. I'm not letting Sherlock go through Christmas with coffee and Chinese takeaway alone. If he insists on being all alone, he's still having the full season's trimmings.'

Greg hums in agreement. As he's reaching the top of the fireplace mirror with a tinsel he asks me back, over his shoulder: 'Are you going to spend Christmas with your missus, John?'

I sigh. 'No, Mary's away in business in the North. She couldn't help it.'

'She's a nurse. How hard can it be to get another nurse to go?'

I shrug. I've learnt not to ask too many questions about Mary's work, so she won't have to lie to me. We're still working to patch things up in that front. And _secrets_ are a very sensitive topic.

'Harry, then?' Greg starts over, sensing he should move on. 'Your sister, I mean.'

'Nah, she's going to be busy.'

'On Christmas?' Greg pierces me with one of his patented don't-lie-to-me looks.

'Rehab', I answer cryptically. It's Harry's business, she's doing a great effort, and I don't want to mess with her privacy.

'Oh, I see', Greg dials down. 'But you can visit her, right?'

I blush, I can actually feel it. 'Not yet. Doctor's orders. No, I don't mean _me_. Her doctors think it wouldn't be helpful at this stage.'

'Oh, tough luck, mate.'

I fake a grinning smile to him and get up, setting the oven to roast slowly the festive meal through the night.

'So', Greg doesn't seem to know when to quit, 'Sherlock's going to be alone, and you're going to be alone? Sounds daft, innit?'

I squint. Maybe alone suits us both best.

'Come on, Greg. Seriously? That's all crooked!' I roll my eyes and take over the decor. It' not like it's the first time I'm doing this.

_The first time included a pouting Sherlock grumpily sat on his armchair, pretending he wasn't even seeing me, while I did my best to cheer up the flat. After years making due on foreign lands in army barracks, I may have gone overboard with the whole Christmas thing at Baker Street. My friend may have played superior, but he never put a halt to my fun. You see, I had nowhere else to call home and to create a Christmas sense so I gathered my new friends – and Sherlock's as well – and tried to create it for the both of us._

_But, of course, by then Sherlock was only too absorbed by The Woman and the royal case._

_It wasn't quite the Christmas I was hoping for._

But I know a small – _distracted _– part of the great genius enjoyed it.

It takes us another half-an-hour before all is laid out to our liking. There's a serious chance Sherlock will call in a cleaning crew to 221B to rid it of all we got in by tomorrow, but an offer is an offer, and the result is out of our hands.

'Is he still asleep?' Greg doubts.

'Yeah', I assure the DI calmly, as I pour coffee into a thermos flask and get a sachet of instant porridge out on the kitchen counter. Hopefully Sherlock will take the bait and eat some breakfast. One can only hope.

As I'm also hoping he'll read the porridge box's instructions. I'm sure he knows not to eat it out right... Doesn't he?

Greg startles me with a hand on my shoulder. 'We must go. It's late and we're both exhausted. I'm sure it's all fine as it is. Sherlock is lucky to have friends like you, John.'

'And you', I add at once.

'I wasn't the one masterminding all this, John.'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	127. Chapter 127

_A/N: Yes, I can now safely say – without spoilers – that this is the Christmas edition. A tiny bit early, I know... -csf_

* * *

_**. Second part of Two .**_

It's four hours later and I've dropped Mary off at the train station. I watched her leave on a long distance train, without fully knowing what she'll be doing when she reaches her destination. I hope she finds the time to celebrate Christmas, it'll make her happy. She'll be spending it alone, and so will I. So much for the family time season...

I hold onto the warm cup of coffee in my hands, the warmth seeping in through the paper and a nice tingling burn at my fingertips.

All around me are people hurrying up along the platform, carrying parcels and multiple festive bags with wrapped gifts visible inside. Kids are eating toffee apples, a vendor is separating a bunch of holly and mistletoe into smaller portions, the smell of Christmas pudding and caramelised fruits, nuts and spices lingers in the air. Even the historical look of King's Cross Station adds to the Christmas stamp hallmark of this place right now.

I'm brought back to the moment abruptly as my phone beeps. _Incoming text message._

"_Need your medical expertise on a case at once. –SH"_

I raise my eyebrows. So much for Sherlock relaxing at Christmas Eve. Oh, well, at least he's not downright mocking me for the absurdity of Greg's and mine clandestine festive decor of his flat.

Come to think about it in the morning light, we trespassed his private property and messed with it despite his expressed refusal to celebrate the holiday. We were out of line, no matter our good intentions.

"_On my way. John"_ – I type back. After hitting Send, I actually add: _"It was me, don't be upset with Greg, oaky? John"_. I send the second one as well, sure that by now Sherlock has easily deduced who his two intruders were, in the middle of the night. The fact that he didn't openly allude to it is disappointing. It's almost certain that he's cross with me.

Almost immediately a text flashes on the screen: _"The case, remember? –SH"_.

I bite down a sad smile and type back a reply: _"On my way right now. John"_.

_**.**_

Getting a cab on Christmas Eve in London has never been easy and today is no exception. By the time I'm standing at 221 Baker Street's door and ringing the doorbell, I'm left waiting for an answer in the cold outside. Snow has just started falling, covering the street, the top of the cars, and giving the familiar landscape a peaceful look.

Maybe Sherlock has grown tired of waiting and he's left already for the next crime scene.

Finally I take a tired seat at 221's doorstep, lazily watching the people hurrying past me. The snow is picking up and the cold wind is bitter, making me hide my gloveless hands under my armpits for comfort.

Somehow I'm almost falling asleep when my phone beeps me awake. I shudder as I'm roused from my slumber and finally scavenge for the device.

"_Mrs Hudson is out of town with family so she'll not open the door –SH"_

"_You have not taken back your key so as to enter through the front door –SH"_

"_You haven't come in through the fire escape. I looked –SH"_

"_Should I call the fire brigade or a chimney sweeper? –SH"_

I giggle, tiredly. Figured he'd have read all the clues inevitably left behind last night, in his own flat. I'm about to type back a reply when 221's front door is unlocked from the inside. Sherlock comes to the door, opening it slowly, he's still in his pyjama bottoms, inside-out t-shirt and long silken dressing gown.

'John...' he says, in a rich tone, full of the warmth he doesn't like to let show.

I raise myself from the front step at once. 'Hey, Sherlock... Look, about last night...' I stop myself short as I feel a woman looking unashamedly at us, as she walks past. Then I realise what this actually looks like, and frown deeply at her. _Mind your own business, will you?_

'Just drop it, John. Take this.'

Sherlock won't let me say anymore. He pushes a small gift box towards me and slams the door shut, leaving me outside. In the cold snow.

I guess there's little doubt he's upset. I look down at the silver coloured box and jingle it. Sounds like metal pieces bouncing together inside. A broken-up wristwatch? Was Sherlock so upset he threw my gift to the wall and smashed it?

With a sigh I open the box, preparing myself for the worst. By now, I've past the point of actually caring about all the passersby's curiosity.

Inside the box I find several sets of keys on key chains. On a small side card it says, in Sherlock's scrawling but neat handwriting: _"So you'll always have a key to come to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes. Ps: Thanks for not breaking my test tubes on the_ _window sill. The results of the experiment were most favourable."_

I smile deeply, feeling warmer just for the kind gesture. Taking one set of keys and saving the others in my jacket pocket, I open up 221's front door at last. I take my coat off, set in on the hanger, and head up to a warm cosy Christmas filled 221B. _Home._

Greg was right. It'd have been daft to spend Christmas alone.

'Come in, John. You took your time', Sherlock opens 221B's door wide for me, holding out some mulled wine. I take it, slightly confused. _Hang on a second, I don't remember having got this ready..._ Sherlock's smirk grows wider. 'If you must know this was my experiment, John. I had different combinations of spices and herbs in those test tubes so to perfect the recipe. Care to have your say?'

I smile. 'Yeah, loved that, Sherlock.' _Figures Sherlock would approach Christmas in his own scientific fashion..._

_**.**_


	128. Chapter 128

_A/N: If it's not __easy to read__, this is the code: __Underlined__ portions are typed, or floating mid-air if you really follow the show (but then __some__ portions just might be a bit too extensive to float mid-air). Two parts, just because it got too long. Thanks! -csf_

* * *

_**. I .**_

I've opened my blog and typed in the assigned box:

"Even genius detectives get the flu."

Just that, and I stood watching the cursor blink apathetically after the end of my sentence.

I really don't know what else to say. Nursing Sherlock is a 24/7 job and it has me drained. No good amount of med school years has prepared me for his feverish antics.

My phone beeps loudly – Sherlock has recently lost his voice due to a sore throat – and I reach out to the device at once. In my reckless movement, born out of short-circuited exhaustion, I tilt the laptop and it almost drops from my knees to the floor. Grabbing it hastily, I opt to shout back:

'Coming, Sherlock!'

The laptop is safely deposited on the living room table and just as I turn to leave, I notice my comment, designed as a private way of getting something off my chest, has unfortunately made it out to the public. At once I set out to delete it.

Sherlock is left to wait a little longer. _He'll be fine._

As always when one is flustered over a stupid computer mishap, the _thing_ freezes on you, then one needs to reboot it, then the internet isn't connecting, and finally I get back to the page and...

Something has changed.

The post on my blog is now set to _private_ and got a reply none the less.

"Geniuses can be childish sometimes."

I blink. Is this Mycroft, the ever omnipotent vigilante of Baker Street's blogs? Well, especially so after Moriarty once hacked onto them. Mycroft Holmes took it quite personally, and I believe heads rolled in the secret services or the MI6 – metaphorically speaking, of course. I mean... _I think._

Another post flashes on the screen:

"Sherlock even more so."

Definitely Mycroft. We share this common permanent concern over Sherlock Holmes, a caring the older brother despises by principle. I stand by it, and Mycroft, rational as ever, just pretends it's not caring at all.

"Hi, Big Brother", I type ingeniously, not sure my blog is secure enough to spill the beans on a heart to heart talk.

"This is now a private area, John."

"Good." I smirk. "Sherlock has been calling. I need to go to him."

The answer is only minimally delayed:

"How is he doing?"

I smile. Good to see Mycroft cares about his little brother despite all the fraternal dramatic exchanges.

"Better? Impatient? Restless? Frustrated? All of the above."

"Then I'll leave you to your duties, John."

_Holmes sarcasm_; yeah, I get too much of it nowadays. I lower the laptop lid and go back to my friend, a recluse in his own room.

_**.**_

Sherlock woke me up in the middle of the night, again. His fever had once more gone up and he suffered with vivid nightmares. Can't imagine where they come from, but the whole thing – the muttered words, the shouts, the pleads, the vulnerable expression in his pale face – left me quite affected as well. He has finally settled down, but I'm still too wired up so I came to the kitchen to have a warm cup of tea and to play some soft classical music on my laptop, not too loud so it won't disturb the patient. Some violin concertos; somehow, the violin always appeases me.

As I turn on my laptop it restarts in my blog page, I left open.

"Sherlock doesn't mean it, you know."

The post is dated from our previous conversation and I never got a chance to read Mycroft's last input. He sounds just like his brother, always the one to have the last word.

"I know." I type, caringly. Then I minimise: "It's just a flu, anyway, he'll live." I sigh and take a finger up to my lips, pensive. Well, this is my blog, right? "He got it bad because he overexerts himself, Mycroft. You know that. He keeps himself to high standards. He always needs to be the best, the genius, the one who gets the answer. I rather think he pushes himself too hard at times. Maybe I need to pay more attention. He told me – mind that, he said it out loud – that he was eating and sleeping. Well, minimally. Plenty for Sherlock's standards. I believed him. DI Lestrade – I think you know him – just told me otherwise. Sherlock lied to me, intentionally. And he did it because he thinks the case is more important than his health. His body is transport, he says. Don't be thick, I tell him; but he never listens. I'm not a genius, you see. I'm just a doctor and that isn't enough, apparently, to have him listening to my advice. Perhaps if you tried, Mycroft. I know you don't appreciate my inputs either – but I'm hoping you'll listen, because this is for Sherlock, and we both care a lot for him."

"Sentiment is a flaw to the best reasoning, John" is the dry answer that appears on the screen. I sigh, exhausted, and shut the laptop. Crossing my arms over the tabletop I nestle my heavy head over my forearms and close my eyes.

_**.**_

"I may have been hasty."

The message alert comes to my phone, as I stand in line at the grocery store nearest to Baker Street. Didn't want to leave Sherlock alone, but some groceries and paracetamol were needed.

Looking blankly at the phone's screen I frown. Thought I had deactivated alerts on my blog. Perhaps they're still on for private pages hacked into by governmental officials.

"I know for a fact that Sherlock is appreciative, John."

I roll my eyes to no-one in general and the phone in particular. _Yeah, right._ Except the Holmes brothers don't do sentiment. They wouldn't care if I got the nasty flu as well. They probably think it's my job as a medically trained person to be Sherlock's nurse through the ordeal.

Sighing, I bury the phone back into my jeans pocket. I'll reply later. I need to get my friend some food.

_**.**_

"I don't believe Sherlock is appreciative. He doesn't do thankfulness. But that's okay, he's Sherlock, and I wouldn't change my best mate. So stuff it, Mycroft!"

I frown and squint at the laptop, while I sip some more beer through the bottle. Sherlock is in bed, warm and fast asleep, and I decided to indulge. I'm not drunk, but I'm not as contained as usual either. I'm sure someone needs to tell Mycroft Holmes some good old fashioned truths.

While I'm at it, we can go over foreign defence affairs... Or not.

No answer ever turns up before I finish the pint bottle. I shrug to the screen. It's not like I seriously expected Mycroft to willingly participate in a conversation _he _didn't start...

_**.**_

"As he always been this difficult when he got sick as a kid, Mycroft?" I type, in the hope of some guidance, early morning lights are filtering through the living room's windows. I've been sleeping on the sofa so I can stay closer to Sherlock, in case he needs me.

A couple of minutes later an extensive response arrives.

"As a child, Sherlock was at times frailer than most of his colleagues of similar age. Taller, but skinnier and less robust than them, or his older brother. That was when he started withdrawing and dedicating all his energy to his beloved violin and to his adored chemistry set. John, this was the time he was gifted with a dog. Redbeard. Faithful companion and adventurer, the dog allowed Sherlock to develop some minimal caring and tending skills, for the dog meant the world to him and he'd give it all. Single-minded love it was, and selfless as well. It was quite a shock for Sherlock to lose Redbeard, one I'm not quite sure he has ever fully recuperated from. Sherlock was told the dog was sent to a nearby farm and lived his old age happily there. The loss, however softened, changed Sherlock nevertheless, I'm afraid."

I sigh. Before I can type back something – anything – Sherlock is calling me loudly from his room.

"BRB" Be right back.

Only it might take a while, when Sherlock is concerned.

_**.**_

I stand outside 221, by a parked black car, special licence plate, issued by the British government for those who know how to read these cryptic alphanumeric codes. Mycroft Holmes has come to visit Sherlock. He hardly gave me two words when he arrived and he banged 221's green exterior door shut after he entered, right on my face. I tried opening it with my key, but beyond locked, it seems to have something stopping it from the inside.

_I'd __take a wild __guess__ on__ a long thin black umbrella with a carved wooden handle is jamming the door, acting as a lever against it._

So I'm standing outside, waiting for the two brothers to finish their chitchat. Pretending this is absolutely normal, too.

My headache from last night's slight excess of alcohol makes me a bit grumpy, though.

A phone beeps and I take mine out, instinctively. Not mine, but I can still see an earlier message on my screen, from my blog:

"Enough with that, John. You are needed by Sherlock, and shouldn't wait around for a Holmes to tell you what anyone can see."

That's very ...opinionated... Why would Mycroft write that?

Has he had a couple of beers too?

Hastily I scroll up and verify the status of the page. The setting have magically turned to expand the audience to my private list of closest friends.

Who'd have written that?

The list is not that extensive. Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mrs Hudson are the outside circle.

Mrs Hudson, I'd bet. And as a confirmation, there's another incoming post: "Do come right in for a cuppa, John. you can come round the back. And be sure I'll tell Sherlock off for worrying you like that, it's just not right. He doesn't seem to know how much you care for him. This is Mrs Hudson, by the way."

I'm smiling to my phone, and I wish I could thank her via my blog, but I can't handle it over the phone. I'm a two-fingered typist on my laptop as it is.

"We all know he can be quite a pain. Hold steady, mate. Come round for a pint whenever you need a break. –Greg"

Hang in there, how come Greg still follows my blog? And shouldn't he be working right now?

"The Homes are as captivating as they are infuriating. Never the less, they seem to falter on the basic life skills. That's how we are needed, John. More than they know it. –A"

I do a double take to the black car still parked outside the door. _Anthea?_

She barely nods at me, claiming authorship, then slowly closes the tainted car window between us, little black phone still in her hand.

Okay, now this is too much. Next Sherlock will hear of my blog rambling venting and he'll...

_...Sherlock is also on my closest friend's list. How could he not be?_

No, he should never read any of that!

I huff and groan, helpless, lowering my head, all alone in the street outside 221B and in too much scrutiny none the less.

At least Sherlock is both poorly and with Mycroft. Come to think of it, the two things together could be equivalent of a crossbreeding between a nightmare and a ticking bomb.

But it affords me more time to deactivate my blog page. This ghostly hackings from Mycroft have gone too far. I'm putting an end to them.

"He's not doing it on purpose, John. Be patient. x, Molly"

_I really need to deactivate this blog_, I realise, pinching the bridge on my nose.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	129. Chapter 129

_A/N: Second part is here. Still not British, a writer or a blogger. -csf_

* * *

_**. II .**_

"Sherlock, I hope you get better soon, mate. The bodies are piling up at crime scenes without you. I can't hold off the forensic specialists much longer – they are starting to complain about the stench themselves! No, just kidding. But I'll show you the evidence and the folders on our open cases when you are up to it. Get better before you come back to the muddy, damp, cold crime scenes with us, mate. See ya soon, Greg."

"Sherlock... I know you don't appreciate company during illnesses, you've made that quite clear last week at the morgue. Even if you said you weren't ill. But since you were looking a bit rosy on your cheeks at the time, and that's a sign for fever in your pale complexion, it doesn't take a detective to figure out why you've been missing the last few days. Especially with the way you looked that day. I mean, you looked great, Sherlock. That is, you know I don't mean being ill is a good look, just... If you need me for something just call me, I mean... Call me if you need me. xxx – Molly"

"Dear, could you stop banging the wall with John's old cane? It keeps waking me up in the middle of the night. And John too, but that was the point, I'm assuming. Do give poor John a break, our doctor looks exhausted. I know flues are a nuisance but you're looking so much better already. x Mrs H."

_**.**_

"Sherlock slept better tonight and his rattling cough is more fluid now."

No point in pretending I don't have an audience I didn't ask for, and it's comprised of the nearest and dearest to Sherlock.

_I see Anthea as an automated female extension of Mycroft Holmes and know for a fact that she's loyal to a fault. So I'm not bothered by the powerful little black phone that seems to be a mechanic extension at her fingertips at all times._

"Thanks guys, for all the help and support you've given to Sherlock. I'll make sure to pass it along. I'm sure he's quite appreciative. We all feel down on our lucks during a flu and your concern is sure to be uplifting."

...when I tell him. I'll carefully recount the vows, but I'll refrain from showing him the actual blog page. He wouldn't have understood my need to vent, even among the inner Baker Street circle.

"His fever has come down significantly and apart from feeling a bit weakened and a lot restless, he's ready for a comeback."

I'm smiling as I type it in, sleep already laying a comfortable weight on my eyelids.

"Thanks for all the get-well-soon postcards. They look great on the mantel."

Finally I shut the laptop lid and loll back my head against the old armchair's fabric.

_**.**_

'Can't it wait, Mycroft?' I stand between the tall mellifluous dictator and my best friend's room, in an army stance. This time he won't kick me out for confidential meetings with Sherlock. This time there won't even be a meeting, not while Sherlock rests. I'm not about to let anyone disturb my resting friend.

Mycroft Holmes raises an indignant eyebrow to me.

'If it could wait I'd have arranged this reunion in a different place, other than this sick ridden flat, John.'

I frown, angry. 'You know he's still recuperating, Mycroft, we talked about that.' Again I step in front of his path, anticipating his change of direction.

He squints at me. 'What on earth are you on about, John?'

I roll my eyes. Holmes family members are secretive as a second nature. 'The blog, Mycroft.'

For the first time ever – I believe – I'm confronted with a blank stare from Mycroft, the omniscient embodiment of the government. It both puzzles and frightens me at the same time.

'Don't mess with me, Mycroft!'

'Not _messing_ with you, John', he tells me in an overly polite, placating voice. 'I'm not aware of what you are referring to. Care to elaborate?'

'You hacked into my blog! I talked to you about Sherlock! Remember that now?' I hiss, just a touch away from actually screaming, so I won't wake Sherlock up myself.

Mycroft releases his expression by raising his eyebrows. He almost looks amused.

'John, my brother is a genius. And a meddling one at that. Of course he can intercept communications coming out of Baker Street. I believe he has access to a phone? Surely some suspicion must have crossed your mind that you were conversing with another Holmes', he adds, for good measure.

_No, it really didn't. The way we conversed – I mean, talked – about Sherlock was so open and raw. Sometimes it wasn't the most positive, I guess. That Sherlock could accept so easily all I had to vent, voice, gossip, confess, admire, or just plain let off my heart, all about him, is puzzling. Then again, Baker Street's genius is not one to follow social etiquette blindingly. He discoursed about himself in the third person – as an impersonal observer – with all the frankness of a man who loves his rationality and all the stoic emotion of an artist._

Mycroft carries on, not letting me settle down my ideas: 'You haven't been conversing with me at all, but with him. I'm afraid my brother can be quite a brat when he's bored, and this flu had all the makings for catastrophic misunderstandings. Do try not to kill my brother, doctor Watson. It pains me to confess that on occasion he's quite useful to me.'

I'm still gasping for air, stunned and stuck on reverse.

Mycroft retreats: 'Perhaps I should indeed come back later, giving you both the chance to talk. The foreign affairs minister of Portugal will have to wait, I'm afraid', he adds mysteriously. 'Oh, and don't wake my brother up, his flu seems to be overly important, even over Portugal's eminent scandals...' he leaves at once, poorly concealing some sniggering.

I sigh, lowering my head to my hands, all alone now in 221B's cold living room.

_**.**_

I didn't confront Sherlock. Not at front, at least. I wanted to understand his reasoning. Whether it was childish, inquisitive, manipulative or another. Sherlock is not one to do things purely impulsively. Usually there's a reason, one he considers to be a good reason. Hell, most of the times there's a bunch of reasons and he's multitasking along his mischievousness.

Whatever his reasons, I can't see why. _I guess I really am not a genius._

'John, what time is it?'

For the first time in almost a week, Sherlock has ventured out of his room, beyond the bathroom. He's walking slowly, unsteadily making his way into the kitchen. I hasten to get up from my armchair and help him along.

'Are you sure you're up for this? It has been a particularly virulent strain of flu, Sherlock', I need to warn him.

With unsteady hands he swats my worries away. 'I'm fine. What time...?'

I press my lips thin. Not that fine, if he won't complete his own sentences. That's not much like him.

'Just gone past six. How are you feeling?'

He looks carefully over my shoulder, as if looking for something. 'And Portugal's foreign affairs minister?'

I supress a giggle. 'Definitely not hiding on our living room, Sherlock. Mycroft's been here, but he left quite a while ago.'

The news seems to anger the consulting detective. 'Why did he have to go? Why did my body need to stupidly indulge in sleep?'

'Yeah...' I pretend to agree, 'that's what got you into trouble in the first place, Sherlock. You've been overworking yourself.'

He rolls his eyes in frenetic energy and just brushes my comments aside. I sigh and try to focus on getting through to him.

'You told me, Sherlock', I start slowly, unplanned, 'you've told me you were appreciative of...' _What should I call it, my nursing duties? _'Of my attempt to help you.'

'I'm acceptably healthy now, John!' he snaps at me, frustrated.

I bite my lip. 'Sherlock, would "acceptably alright" ever be enough to apply for Redbeard?'

My question actually stops the genius on his tracks, as he's getting into his long wool coat and attempting to go out into the freezing cold outside. Sherlock turns to me, eyes wide, only slightly feverish still, as he faces me with raw painful honesty.

'Why bring Redbeard up?' he just about whispers. Raw hurt still so present in his voice. I guess single-minded love never goes away, and that was something Sherlock and Redbeard must have had for each other. The unbreakable bond of love.

_You brought him up first. You wanted me to read what you didn't tell me face to face. I assume it was too painful still. _'Because you told me you cared for your beloved dog like no other friend in the world, Sherlock. I seem to know a bit about that feeling. And it makes me worry.'

He looks shocked, caught out of guard. 'Worried about me?' I nod. He seems taken aback. I frown.

'Sherlock, of course I worry about you. All the time. You're my best friend. I care.'

He faces me blankly, and I worry I've made things more awkward now.

Finally, Sherlock drops the coat on the floor next to him, possibly without being fully aware of giving up on his plan to exit 221B irresponsibly.

'No. Redbeard was special', he comes back.

'You are special too, Sherlock. Let me protect you, if I find that you don't have enough sense to protect yourself and you don't even trust my professional judgement.'

He grows weary all of a sudden. 'Just drop it, John! Of course I trust you as a doctor! Who else would I let come near me at such a vulnerable time when I was having the worst nightmares, or when I hardly could keep my meds down? I trust you, John, regarding my health, more than I trust myself. I trust you day in and day out, and I don't mean exclusively on the cases... I just can't be cooped-up in here _for ever_!'

I sigh, a weight lifted off my chest. He's restless, that I can sympathise with.

'Would it help if we played a game of cluedo?' I bargain knowingly.

He smirks, amused, and so much more tranquil. 'As matter of fact, it might. Is that what the doctor orders?'

I nod. 'With one condition, you need to stop stalking my blog, Sherlock...'

'Admit it, John, I'm the one making it remotely interesting...'

'Oi!' I warn him, schooling my face to seriousness. He just giggles. I'm left smiling approvingly at his healthier appearance.

_**.**_


	130. Chapter 130

_A/N: Another sci-fi rubbish here. (Ta.)_

_Still don't know where this is heading (or where it came from). More parts to be added. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 1**_

Sherlock Holmes has always had a vain streak to his personality. His distant ascetic genius act always cracks slightly under a genuine praise. As if betraying a deep need to connect, lying awake under the complex layers of his persona. A need for recognition; maybe even understanding. To me, that small flair of vanity indicates that no matter the rational man's powers, he is as human as all of us, faltering under the human connection of praise.

And he deserves it - so I don't mind praising him at all.

Unfortunately, his successes with the Yard, and even to some extent my blog detailing our work together, have brought the Baker Street's consulting detective more than new cases by email, post and clients through the front door. It has got Sherlock a lot of notoriety across London, and far beyond.

With all the deserved praise deriving from the new influx of clients, there also came hate mail, and threats. _I never foresaw those when I used my blog to praise my friend. I was too innocent in a harsh world._

Of course Sherlock is aware of those threats and takes adequate precautions. It helps when one's brother has a minor position in the government, and commands cctv cameras for fun. So, mostly, Mycroft has become our intelligence agency. An upscale bodyguard without the legwork, if you will.

Through all the time Sherlock's office has coincided with his home address, Mycroft has been carefully adding new security measures to protect his little brother from intruders, criminals, raging stalking fans, the lot. I rather think he has covered my back quite a few times as well - don't really know why; I've always refused to play the part of his brother's handler and hardly ever been his messenger.

A lot of Sherlock's privacy has been compromised in the effort to keep him safe. Not that the man who is prone to get out of bed and walk around 221B wrapped only in a bed sheet while on a live conference over a case is really bothered. Other things - like a biohazard cleaning crew once being called to wipe down the kitchen, ruining one rate of decomposition experiment going on - may have been more upsetting to Sherlock than stalking cctv cameras, real time feed microphones installed on the living room and other such wonders Mycroft's overworked team as come up with.

This time Mycroft may have taken it a step too far.

Sherlock is mildly amused. I'm flabbergasted.

Apparently, years ago, before I met Sherlock Holmes and around the time he moved into 221B Baker Street, Mycroft's top secret lab coat people have harvested some of Sherlock's cells. And - even more unbelievable than having Sherlock consent to people coming so close to him and his cells - they have spent the next years trying to get a clone of Sherlock Holmes. And rapidly ageing that clone too.

I still struggle to believe it and I have the clone standing right in front of me. I'd call _it_ Sherlock Two if it wasn't creeping me out so much to have two Sherlocks in the same living room, interrupted breakfast at the table now completely forgotten.

I can't stop myself from rubbing my eyes. It feels like I'm seeing double even if they're dressed slightly differently. Maybe there is even a slight age gap between them. Sherlock Two has aged till he appears to be Sherlock's age when the sample was harvested. So... early thirties? There's a softer roundness to Sherlock Two's features, and also a stronger feel of despise for idiocy in the room.

He's been giving me plenty of those uppish looks, Sherlock Two. You see, he's never met me. He doesn't quite understand why am I still in the room with the two Holmes brothers, breakfast consisting of boiled egg, abandoned in the cup, and coffee, going cold. He's hinting at me that I don't belong in this living room, as if I'm one too many in the family reunion. I don't really pay attention to the clone. We all have to make sacrifices. He can either put up with me or vacate _my_ armchair.

Sherlock, the one I've known longer, has been eyeing carefully his replica with interest.

'It will do, Mycroft', he says at last, nevertheless acting flaringly pained, exaggeratedly so.

Both his clone and I frown at once. Sherlock knows of this plan then.

Mycroft is the one that comes to my aid, explaining what is going on, maybe even to aggravate his baby brother who's much rather keep his doppelganger's _raison d'être_ under wraps.

'Your younger self will be making public appearances the next few days, Sherlock. He'll be taking your place whenever there is the slight chance that you face danger from your unidentified enemy. This is a much simpler solution than having my men protecting you at all times, particularly when you go rogue so many of those times. They're wasted chasing you when your enemies do so also, and are getting rather tired of sprinting after you when you try to outrun them', big brother confides with a knowledgeable wink at me. _Yeah, Sherlock's strides come from bloody long legs and a thin frame._

'Mycroft...' I start, confused. 'What happens if the clone gets hurt?'

'Sherlock feels the pain' Mycroft deadpans. 'No, not really', he corrects at my shocked expression. 'He is not a real person, not in the senses you would use to describe one, John. He's more of a imprint of reality, a ghost with a corporal manifestation. However, he's made of unstable biological matter that won't last. Inevitably there are flaws that make him short of human. He does not feel pain, he will not learn, he is an _idée fixe_ that cannot be changed for the duration of his activation. That is too say, the clone is a walking talking replica of how Sherlock was when the cells were harvested. Who we are, John, is a strong reality that is imprinted in far more than our souls. It's truly a part of us. From our thoughts, beliefs and vices to the fitness level and vitamins intake, all of who we are that we can quantify or describe is a part of us, of all of us, in our cells. From a brain cell to a muscle cell, from a fingertip to the heart, from an alveoli in our lungs to a strand of hair, who we are has been deeply coded in our cell's memory. It's beautifully terrifying that who we are is a part of every tiny elemental building block in us... Think of this, John. As we go around our day, shedding our hair', he looks with some grudge at Sherlock's long raven black curls, 'some more than others, we are leaving behind minute portions of who we are. What stories they could tell us, if only cloning was not such an expensive work - and humanity in general so useless to duplicate.'

'You've long foreseen a future Sherlock might be needed one day', I notice.

'I've always known enough of my brother's genius to take the opportunity, John.'

I smile, realising this is a declaration of caring in the Holmes peculiar way. Mycroft purses his lips, displeased of my deductions; he's read them easily in my facial expression.

'The clone has been briefed and is apt to take Sherlock's place. He will take the dangerous risks for my brother in the next few days. That has been established. If something happens to the clone, Sherlock will be spared, at least... Although Sherlock will moan from having to listen to me. A lot of money and energy have been spent to recreate Sherlock Holmes. A Sherlock so perfect the public will be fooled. Only the three of us know this.'

'And the scientists', I point out, logically.

'They don't count.' Mycroft's tone implies they're locked somewhere. I frown.

'So how many Sherlocks are there, in some dusty basement?'

'None more, John. This is it. The clone was created as an emergency contingency. We have decided to employ him now.'

I frown, a shiver running down my back. I strive to keep a strong appearance. 'And St Bart's? Why not use the clone against Moriarty?'

The older Holmes is not surprised by my question. As if he had anticipated it. 'Not ready yet, alas. Scientists are not magicians', Mycroft smiles a dead smile. 'Not even mine ones.'

'And now, what happens after the danger is over?'

We all glance at the fake Sherlock, seating in my armchair, looking (appropriately) bored.

'He... disintegrates, for the lack of a better expression, after 3 days. You will notice his outward appearance starts to fade and falter, leading up to his expiration date, John. It's really quite wondrous. So, Sherlock', he addresses his brother, 'use him wisely.' Mycroft wiggles his eyebrows, both comically and eerily in a way only he can.

'Naturally', Sherlock dismisses vaguely.

Mycroft sends me a pained overly suffering look and dismisses himself from 221B.

After big brother leaves, I'm still stunned to be in a room with two Sherlocks. The clone will stay in Baker Street, waiting for directives. This can get tricky. I need to make sure I always know which one I'm addressing. My good friend, or the one who still doesn't know me.

With a deep breath and a puzzled smile, I get up and do what I should have long ago. I walk over to the second Sherlock and take out a hand to shake his.

'Hi, I'm John.'

The man looks at me with a most unappreciative manner and assures me: 'Yes, retired soldier, currently a doctor at A&amp;E - no, wait, not even that, NHS care. Yes, I can see that, it's as plain as daylight. I hardly require introductions, _John_, and I'm not one for small talk. I don't believe you have much going on that I may require your services for, so why don't we save time by skipping the social niceties? I'm not pleased to meet you, I'm not interested in small talk, I can easily deduce all I need from you just by looking. Why would I want to talk to you?'

I frown, upset. 'You may need my phone?' I return coldly. This is not the Sherlock I met at Bart's upon returning to London. This is a more detached, socially isolated, genius.

'There's the landline', he points out, never knowing I'm alluding to the first time I met the real Sherlock Holmes.

'You prefer to text.'

For once he looks taken aback. 'Yes, I do. How do you know that?'

'Sherlock is my best friend', I state simply, honestly.

He twists his face in a derogative smile that begs for complicity, then slowly his amusement crumbles. 'Really?' he sounds shocked. I'm taking prejudice, mate.

The real Sherlock has allowed the interaction go on for this long but now he intervenes: 'John is too honest to joke about these things, Duplicate.'

The clones frowns, ticked. 'I have a name you know?' he bites back, rudely.

'Too confusing', Sherlock dismisses, without giving him a second look. 'John, we're setting up a plan.'

I copy his victory smile. It's Sherlock and John against crime. Well... Sherlock, John and Sherlock II, I guess.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	131. Chapter 131

_A/N: I was upset, blame it on my work. (Sorry.) _

_Some time later I'll come back and change the chapters order to put this right and finish that last one__. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Time started again when warm fingertips touched my cold bruised skin with the softest and most respectful touches. Followed by safe strong arms enveloping me and raising me from the ground where I laid broken and unresponsive.

_**.**_

Strong masculine hands seized my frame and sought to take control of all but my autonomic responses for me. _I let them._ I was long gone past the physical persuasion tactics, the painful reality, the frightening present. I was beyond time and space. The dirty warehouse with rust smudges on the crumbling concrete walls or the undetermined number of days I've been undergoing torture, holding out to protect my friend.

_I will not tell them __Sherlock's secret__._

I had taken refuge somewhere deep inside me - somewhere warm, cosy, primal, where fear and pain and the physical world had no corporeal expression. Some lost place built out of memories, dreams and dying connections to the reality fringes. In my own mind I was free, and whole and safe. That's when time stopped counting the normal way. I lost track up to the moment I allowed myself to resurface. When time started again. But...

_It'd take effort before time meant something again._

I could be safe in the arms of my hero, but I was unreachable for a long stretch, too damaged both mentally and physically.

_**.**_

'John! _Talk to me now!_'

He's angry. Screams. Pain, raw pain, piercing my head, splitting it open.

Sherlock's angry. At me. I've disappointed him, my hero. Must have been weak, despite all my trying, I really tried, but I failed him. Again. Just like when he jumped out to the unknown from Bart's rooftop. Because I couldn't protect him.

A fresh tear rolls unbidden down my cheek, gathering dirt and dried blood flecks and tingling over the fresh cuts and bruises in my face.

'No, no, no. I didn't mean it, John!' The voice is now soft again, slightly panicking, so broken in its own way. I wonder what could pain my friend so much, but I have no strength left in me to ask, to look, _to know_.

A rough but welcomed surface envelops my trembling shoulders. I'm so cold that I welcome the harsh wool surface over my disrupted skin. I taint it with my blood, flowing free from several gashes. It mesmerises me how I'm spilling out, losing myself to a dirty ground where I've been brutally mistreated.

A whimper escapes my dry sore throat and it's the first sound that whispers through my lips. Not fully intentional, probably not even fully conscious anymore.

'I'm here now, John. I took too long, I - I couldn't f-find you.'

I lean in to that voice, the protection I need and welcome. This is what I've been holding out for. To be rescued. My life strengths holding out for Sherlock to come and get me.

_But he took so long._

'I'm sorry, John.'

_No, this is wrong. Sherlock never apologises._

_I'm bleeding all over his wool coat, aren't I?_

'I'm here now... Can you hear me?'

_Yeah, I know you. You're my best friend._

'John, are you awake?'

_I'm in too much pain to fall asleep._

'John, please say something...'

_I can't, not right now. If I fully wake up, if I fully come back now, reality will break me._

'John?'

_Later._

'John...'

_**.**_

Those strong hands never abandon me, warm, steady, safe. They are there through the pricks to find an IV, but the dehydration makes what should be a minimal procedure into a long delayed process. Eventually they fit a port into the subclavian artery, straight to the heart. They fear it might stop. I realise my body is too beaten up, it just might give up on me.

Sherlock doesn't believe that. He holds on. Not because he doesn't want to say goodbye, but because he won't leave me now he's found me again.

It must have been quite a shock to him. To lose, search and find me.

_I didn't tell them what they wanted to know. That would be giving up. I couldn't do that to you, Sherlock._

I still can't remember it well. I'm fuzzy around the edges.

_I need to rest now, Sherlock._

_**.**_

Bright light flashes on me, eclipsing the darkness one brief instant at a time. They bring me back, pained, confused - again lying on a cold floor. But this time over a warm rough surface, like expensive thick wool.

With a stomach jolt I realise I'm lying on my stomach on the floor. Exposed, cold, alone. Fear fills me, grabs me by the throat.

The repetitive lightening stops abruptly, as I'm shaking already.

Immediately I'm enveloped again in strong arms, my name repeated rhythmically like a lullaby.

'It's alright, John. They have enough photographic evidence already. It's alright, we're going home now.'

_I wish I could believe that._

In the end I opt to retreat inside again.

_**.**_

Pain flairs up in my back as I'm lying on feather pillows and silk bed linen. Those soft hands are now conscientious, medically precise, as I glimpse at Sherlock through half lidded eyes. He doesn't seem aware that I'm here at this time. Medical encyclopaedia by his side, he's attentively reading up, eagerly soaking up on a couple of pages. Desperate to find comfort in the rational guidelines of my medical bibliography, while he attempts to check the dressings over the wounds on my ankles from the tight bindings.

_It's off. I'm the doctor here. If he keeps it up I'll become obsolete, redundant. He'll never again come to get me when I need him so much._

'Shhh...' He's noticed me and immediately scrambled closer, books abandoned and flipping their pages shut. He'll struggle to find his page again, I notice through heavy eyelids.

I can hardly blink my eyes. Someone must have given me something to help ease the pain and the panic. It gets me out of my shell, trying to see the world that mistreated me so badly. But it also muddles me further and all coherent thoughts are buried deep under the meds and I can't retrieve them.

'John?' His voice is ever so hopeful and brave and frail at the same time.

Whomever he's calling for - that familiar name I can't quite place - I hope he finds him. I can sense the hope and the fondness in the way he pronounces that familiar name.

'John, you've stopped shaking', he smiles an innocent happy smile. 'You're finally warming up. That's a good thing because you've got three hot water bottles and all the blankets of Baker Street. You were verging on severe hypothermia. The paramedic said that. He also said you couldn't come home. So I stole the ambulance. And brought you home. Mycroft yelled at me, but that doesn't matter. He got me more doctors in the end. We will take care of you here. This is my room, because it's more comfortable and closest to the bathroom. I don't think you're ready for your room yet, John. Or for the doctors to be around you for long. You started panicking when you saw them. I suppose you might not remember that now. You seem to have thought they were your torturers. They aren't. Those people who did this to you are gone. I took care of it, John. I promised you that already. But you don't remember that either. In fact, I'm the only person you seem not to panic when we touch you. Somehow you trust me. You still trust me, even though I took so long. So I'll stay here, John. Until you recuperate long enough so you know I failed you by taking so long. And then I'll leave if you want me to. I can understand that, you know, I can-'

I blink, slowly, prolonged. _Too much, Sherlock, I can't understand it all, it's just too much._

'Of course, I've been speaking too much. I need to let you rest. This is a conversation we should have when you are okay again, John. Just sleep now, I'll be here. From now on I'll always be here, I promise.'

_I close my eyes and desperately cling to his promise._

_**.**_

I wake up fighting desperately for breath. No air permeates the huge panic lodged in my throat and I'm starving for oxygen. Every time I try to fight it gets worse and I'm left wheezing and trembling.

'Don't fight it, John!' Someone tells me firmly as I try to dodge the oxygen mask. _Where did that mask come from? How did it get to the warehouse? Is this some new unbeknown form of torture?_ I need to fight it off - for me, for Sherlock - I will not have any of it.

Strong steady arms pin me to the mattress - Is this a bed? Am I in hospital? - and force me down. I'm still trying my mightiest to fight them off, but I'm failing and gasping under the onslaught of gas into my lungs. They ache, starving, and deceive me by taking that tainted gas in, giving up on me, fighting their own wronged battle for life.

To add to my confusion the gas is harmless and my starved body soaks in on that air and oxygen, basking on them thankfully.

_My torturers want to keep me alive so they can prolong my misery._

I'm hyperventilating, shivering all over too. Relief mingles with mortification. It's not over yet; it won't ever be.

_I need to keep going. For my friend._

As long as I'm their target, they won't get to Sherlock. As long as I'm the one subjected to _this_, Sherlock is safe elsewhere.

_And he'll come for me, I just know it._

'That's it, John, don't fight it.'

_How did Sherlock get here so fast? Why won't he save me?_

Slowly my treacherous body is falling under the spell of grateful exhaustion. If Sherlock is here - I don't think it's a trick - then I can relax for a minute, let my guard down, gather the strengths in my failing body.

_**.**_

_'What happened?' _a tense voice demands, thunderous. The angered words trickle down the meds haze as if they were coming in waves from far away.

_'I'd hazard a guess that doctor Watson was reliving his experiences prior to his rescue'_, an indifferent, falsely appeasing voice states calmly, counterbalancing the first voice's frazzled state._ 'It's quite common, you see, especially with patients with a post-traumatic stress disorder history.'_

_'He thinks he's back there?' _The voice is troubled, burdened now. Then a tight grip wraps around my wrist, almost so tight that it's becoming painful. It's so different from the gentle voice that says, closer to me now:_ 'John, if you can hear me, know I'll never let you go back there. I've got you now. You are safe, do you hear me?'_

'I need to-' I mumble. I can sense the surprise it generates, my first words after imprisonment. But I lose my train of thought, fighting for words floating in the open universe. I won't open my eyes. It'd be too much - it already is, this small thread of consciousness I hold on to.

_'John, can you hear me? Please, can you understand me? You are feverish, that's why you are confused.'_

Makes sense, I suppose.

'I need to...' I insist, 'protect Sh-Sherl...'

_'No, no, no... I'm here. You did that already. You saved me. Now it's my turn, John.'_

'Keep him safe for me, will ya?' I beg that soothing voice, my own growing stronger by sheer desperation.

_'John...?'_

'Don't think I can do it no more', I whisper.

_'John, cut it out.' _Something is freaking him out, I sense. I don't get it...

'Promise me.'

_'Just drop it, John. I'm here now. No one can harm you now.'_

That voice thinks I endured it all for my own sake. I frown to it. Couldn't have hold out for so long just for myself. It's for Sherlock, it's all for Sherlock, it always has been. The blog, the semtex vest, the day after St Bart's rooftop final curtain act.

He's the genius, the one that deserves the glory, the one who knows how to save lives and correct injustices. He's Sherlock.

'Go to my friend. Keep him safe. Please, I beg you.'

There is nothing but silence for a few seconds then finally the voice plays along:

_'I will, John, I'll keep Sherlock Holmes and John Watson safe. I promise you. Sleep now, you earned your rest.'_

I smile and take a deeper breath. I'm so glad I'm not alone. This voice. Something deep inside me tells me I can trust it. I can rebuild while this voice watches over me. This voice is safety and home. I can relax now.

Tomorrow I'll come back.

_**.**_


	132. Chapter 132

_A/N: I was still upset. (Sorry.) I had the urge of not leaving the last one like that. Never really planned this one, just playing around. -csf_

* * *

_**. Continuation of the last one .**_

Time has lost its continuity these days. It's one long, recurrently interrupted, string of consciousness. I keep crashing in and out of reality. I don't know where I am when I venture out of myself. The pain is either unbearable, jolting me awake with fresh tears in my eyes, or it hides, numb, under distorted inputs, clouded by the morphine. I have a vague suspicion, as a doctor, that the morphine drip has been maxed out. And if Sherlock is anywhere near the controls I'd be sure to do that. He's not shy of giving chemical relief to a broken body ravished by violence and subsequent pneumonia. He didn't say it, but of course I can tell. _It's easier to be a doctor than it is to be John_ _right now._ The diagnosis wasn't too hard. I deduced it while Sherlock fumbled with a new morphine bag.

His hands were shaking, there was cursing under his breath, reproachful because he had fallen asleep out of exhaustion, so deeply he hadn't heard the morphine reset alarm go off, signaling it needed to be restarted. Pain enveloped me, rising like a tsunami wave, beyond the barriers of human resiliency, as the drugs cleared off my system. The alarm beeping away, my friend utterly crushed by exhaustion in a chair by my bedside was oblivious to it, and I opened my eyes to a blurry reality at last.

I'm a doctor so I tried performing my job. I fought my way up on the bed, painfully stretching my wounds, several of them screaming in unison on my chest, my back, my shoulder. _Everywhere._ I trailed unsteady fingers over a couple of those sites, trying to assure myself they had been attended to, trying to feel the stitches, but there were only bandages, so many of them that they could alone explain my shortness of breath. I was an inch away from being wrapped up like a mummy, and a step away from having become just as dead.

I reached forward to the beeping machine but it was a foot away from the bed and that was nowadays too distant. I leaned over as much as I could without rupturing those stitches... Only to fall, slipping over the edge of the bed, crumbling on the floor in a pain filled heap of misery, sweat, blood and tears.

Sherlock woke up with the loud noise of a former soldier - albeit rapidly decreasing in sturdiness due to the recent ordeal and its ongoing consequences - hitting the ground painfully.

'John!'

His shout pierced the swirling cloud of too much pain, too much despair, too many edges.

He lifted me off the floor with ease, only gently hesitating because he must have known that wherever he'd touch me it'd be too painful. He deposited my broken up body on the bed and fumbled with the machine till I could feel the relief flooding my body, invading and taking over my mind.

Only a bout of deep cough kept hacking away in my chest, keeping me awake, bending me into two, and a deep lungful of air was suddenly not enough. _Pneumonia,_ _it came to me only then._

_It's not over, it never is._ I'm out of that horrible place but not safe yet.

The oxygen mask comes back onto my face and I won't fight it off this time.

Belatedly I'd come to realise, just before I turned out cold, Sherlock kept repeating his own self-soothing mantra of "I'm here, John, I'm here". I latched on to the promise carried in his words.

But even Sherlock is somewhat broken now.

_**.**_

Sherlock stays. And that's the sole reason I fight. It's too much for one single person to bear. Perhaps two can carry this nightmare.

_**.**_

I want to go back to the former days, to the rooftop extravaganza chasings, to the quieted giggles at crime scenes, even to the peaceful evenings by the fire at Baker Street when the aroma of tea and violin quivering notes fill the air.

My soul rebels against my prostrated inertia, the best my body can live up to at this time. It might be the constant low running fever, hacking away into my frazzled nerves, consequence of the bad bout of pneumonia. _Could be that my soul is rebuilding and gathering strengths faster than my body._ And in such case, I'd owe it entirely to Sherlock's quiet devotion.

He seems to have put his beloved cases on hold - and consequently his sanity at risk. Somehow I can't catch a single tell of his restlessness. _Time seems to have stopped for him as well._ Waiting for my return.

Sherlock won't even leave 221B, and hardly exits my side at all. If there's an outsider present (usually nurses, as if they've taken over 221B for my sake), Sherlock always makes sure to be around me. And obnoxious. And a bit loud. It's all I need to keep focused on him, and off the humiliation of having little control over my healing body.

I felt ashamed, at first. That in my patient's everyday care I was put on display to Sherlock, beyond the realms of modesty. And I'm a private man. Not a prune, but private. _I needn't worry._ Sherlock saw my limbs and bones and flesh like any other live specimen to study, short of being provided from the morgue. There were no social constraints in the way he continuously approaches me, no emotional readings, no basic human curiosity of taking note of what usually lies under layers of clothes.

_If he was ever to do that purposefully, I assume he'd rather wait till I'm more of the John Watson he used to know. I'm a painfully tainted version of who he once chose to be his partner in crime solving._

And if he actually looked at me with any other intent than to quickly scan my live stats, it must have been when I was fully out. That should have given him enough time to compare me to the mean, and catalogue injuries' damage and all those other things he'd have done if I had been taken to Molly's morgue. I mean, I'm not shocked by it. _He's Sherlock._ And I did sign a form donating my remains to science. _Knowing Sherlock's possessiveness fully well._ So long as my skull is not the missing piece to achieve symmetry in the fireplace's decor... Sherlock has been wise enough not to do his studies while I'm awake.

He sees the IVs, the probes, the oxymeters and the heart rate meters with the casualness of some fancy dressing I decided to put on just for the sake of it.

So that became another defence I let fall in those first days. He wouldn't allude to my shoulder scar, or the vast array of more recent ugly injuries. Not now, not while I can't have control of my own body fully. _It's a silent understanding._ One day, we'll return to our old way of dealing with things, and he'll return me my lost dignity.

_Not so lost, because Sherlock has been the most respectful, mindful of me and my situation._

As if I was that precious to him, that he'd fight desperately to regain what we lost. Whether by going revengefully after my captors or just by being committed to be a part of every step in my recovery.

I'm not a vengeance seeking man. I'm thankful that Sherlock terminated the threat I couldn't fight off myself, mostly because that means that Sherlock and I are now _safe._

_And so is Sherlock's secret. _The reason that got me in trouble in the first place.

_**.**_

A revengeful soldier might benefit from having a so-called sociopathic friend with spiteful tendencies. Whatever happened to the men who attacked me in that warehouse, it wasn't pretty; I knew that even without queering Sherlock.

What I didn't know was the artistic extent to which he refined his payback, for me.

Who better than a so-called sociopath (psychopath to some) to carefully select adequate paybacks?

More than that, Sherlock anticipated things I couldn't comprehend or foresee yet.

Such as a strange step in my healing; erasing some of the pain and bringing me a new sense of peace. I lamented those men had messed up with the wrong soldier. _This one comes with a good friend tagging along, possessively._

I lamented their endings could have been so easy and also, paradoxically, such a waste.

It tainted Sherlock's image somewhat. It was something that Greg Lestrade could never be told about, that Mycroft Holmes was not surprised, that might unnerve Molly or Mrs Hudson - then again_..._

Sherlock didn't deserve to be less of the great man he is, to protect me. As if being a recluse in his own 221B, carefully shared with a bunch of indiscriminate health professionals, wasn't enough of a generous concession of his usual self at this time.

_Lord, I'm hurting Sherlock by being here. And I'd hurt Sherlock if I wasn't._

_**.**_

'It wasn't the way you think, John. I made sure to be just', he tells me when he no longer can dissimulate his knowledge on the nature of my regretful looks his way.

'Just?' I repeat, awkwardly. The night nurse is right now leaving us. These days there won't be anyone standing in vigilance at the kitchen table anymore. I'm stronger now. The only other awake soul in this place is my naturally nocturnal friend, Sherlock. The one who's about to share his secrets with me.

This is the conversation we need to have, but I don't want to. I shift minutely on the bed, restless. Immediately he comes over to help plump my pillows and sort the crinkles in the duvet.

'I didn't express myself adequately', he assumes as another small concession to his friend. 'There were three men, John, causing you the most hideous bodily harm I could conceive...' He pauses, a flash of hurt crossing his green eyes. 'No, again words fail me. I never could conceive such horrid scene. And in that I failed you in yet another way.'

'You did not fail me, you saved me', I make sure to tell him. He doesn't react. _Why is he so unreachable when I need him, hearing me, the most?_

Sherlock continues, oblivious to my inner frustration. 'Those three man were given the chance of choice, John, between death and being brought to justice. And no doubt they chose the latter. You see, they are unaware of the power of the Holmes' wrath.'

I smile weakly. 'Even your brother is involved, you mean?'

'Oh, yes, I'd rather say he'll enjoy bringing them to the best hell England has ever created.'

'Sherlock...'

He pretends to ignore me, as he double checks the morphine drip.

'John.' His voice is calm, melodic, profound. 'Those three men played different parts in the pain inflicted in you. So I gave each of them a different scenario.'

I frown, worried now. _But I do understand him._

If Sherlock didn't let his creativity flow more deadly, it was because something held him back. _Me._ I needed him. I was still alive, and I needed him by my side. He wouldn't fall in the trap of wasting his energy on the bad guys instead.

_He kept his eyes on the goal._

_Efficient, clean, protective._

Even more than that. He made sure I got to face my opponents one more time, should I choose to do so. Ultimately giving me some power back, some of that power that was so viciously taken away from me.

Death would have been only too efficient, to definite. In a way, too merciful. Hardly accurate to the pain they initiated.

_It may have turned out worse._

_For me._

Am I a bad person, that I feel touched that my consulting detective friend applies his super powers to create a crime for me as confidently as he solves them?

I don't think he'd do that for many other people. I'm one of the few ones.

_'Sherlock, what have you done?'_ I whisper, mesmerised by the sweet expression in his eyes. The deadliest man alive is one who has been confronted with the perspective of having nothing left to lose.

_**.**_


	133. Chapter 133

_A/N: I guess I was upset, for the third time. (Still sorry this is heavier than usual.) -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

A stiffened scream ruptures off my battered body the first night the morphine is brought down a notch. It comes uncensored out of my throat, but that's just not enough. My whole body rebels, screams, breaks beyond relief.

They couldn't keep up the overwhelming opiates level any longer and it was the only medically advisable thing to do. Dependency has already brought much of the morphine's early efficiency down, and now my body is aching to go through the rest of my life with this numbing agent, chasing it for relief.

_It's too raw without it. Body and soul are on fire._

I needed to break the cycle of growing pain / despair / soothing morphine / unnatural relief / pain again, easing it out, before it gets completely out of hand. What was maxed out in the first days - _you don't deny relief to a dying man_ \- is now being reluctantly harnessed and controlled.

_It's a whole new battle to fight._

As pain again rips me open inch by inch, Sherlock is a powerless spectator to my state. He sits at the end of the bed - his bed, lent to me in generosity - and watches wide-eyed and pale faced. Fingers that were generously evening the duvet's wrinkles are frozen mid-action, galvanised clutching the fabric, piercing through with his convulsed fingertips, with the frustrated clawing of a man desperate to find his ground again.

I'm left to restlessly fidget on the bed sheets, sweaty and uncomfortable, watching Sherlock struggle with my situation.

'Are you sure, John?' he asks me only once. It was the doctors' decision, but Sherlock knows and trusts only one doctor: me. He'll listen only to me. For the sake of it, he puts all the cards on the table. 'I actually know a man that can get you a lifetime supply, should you choose to accept it.'

I shake my head briskly. _Ta, Sherlock. As you guessed, I won't take the easy way out._ 'No, this needs to be done. Thanks, though.'

'Should we talk?' Sherlock asks, vulnerable, his eyes still set on me. A distraction as a coping mechanism, born out of the lessons I taught him.

'Sounds good', I play on. _Couldn't care less, in reality. Nothing can distract me efficiently at this time. Nothing but going back to the full dosage of Morpheus sleep._

He nods, quietly, to my answer and my silent reasoning. Still, he'll try, for me, for us. Faking normality, hoping it becomes reality.

'The first man', he starts in a controlled voice and his greyish eyes locked somewhere over on the bedside table, 'was the one who took your jacket and jumper from you. Cold was essential to the early stages of their plan, to tire you, to leave you uncomfortable, to keep you on edge. Torture is not half as efficient if it springs on you. The anticipation paves the way to a heightened state of perception.'

I realise he's now elaborating and detailing over the three men that nearly killed me. I let him, my interest strangely sparkled.

'See?' I grimace. 'Knew you liked my jumpers, Sherlock. You went all revengeful over the jumper thief.'

Sherlock mirrors my smile, but it's vague and superficial. Still he won't cross his gaze with mine, as if to remain the impersonal narrator of his own feats. Sherlock needs this distance, this fake insensitivity. I let him carry on, too mesmerised by his tale. 'You know what he did to you, so I will not bring up unwanted memories', he tells me gravely.

'I remember', I whisper. _I'll never forget._

'He's a hired goon, so I acted as a new client. Early in the morning after you got rescued, he was contacted by an anonymous but wealthy client and he got a new hit, up north. Alas, his brand new car was to break down during the ride. It happened on a bad spot. Not much more than on a vast stretch of frozen farmland, with no help in sight and no network connection on a phone. The GPS system's wireless was also a no go in that area. It's almost as if a thermo sensitive substance had been added to the petrol to damage the motor.' He shrugs, mindlessly. 'Simple chemistry equations and mathematical formulas wouldn't certainly make it happen at a better stop', he comments, as a side note to his story telling. Sat at the bed's foot, it's reminiscent of a bedtime story told with that deep rich voice. Only it's nothing of a children's tale. 'The area is not all that secluded, John. There's more than bitter snow and ice on that remote empty stretch if road. There's a military training ground a few miles back. Walking distance, surely. But at that time he goon had already been found for earlier crimes by the British government. Well, you know _who_ I mean, John. The goon is wanted for what he did before and recently, to a fellow soldier. Going to the military base to ask for help would entail that the goon's identity would be crosschecked and he'd be found out. That would surely land him in prison. Obviously there was an alternative; not going would take his already existing hypothermic status to a closure. Going would save him but also bring him to justice. Tough choice, I guess.'

'Easy choice', I shake my head. Natural, really, to want to save yourself.

'You'd be surprised', he added ominously, as if experienced.

'Sherlock, that was...' I start, grimacing through my pain '...surprisingly easy.'

'Chance often works that way', he comments, as if he had nothing to do with it. But I know better. _Thanks._

The only complicated thing in Sherlock's plan is that moral clause where the criminal is to chose the ending of his criminal activities.

_The choice was what I needed to still be John, to still be whole and not a revengeful dark soul. Sherlock saw that in me, better than I'd have ever known._

'I'm not sleepy yet', I comment, urging him to continue.

This time, Sherlock's gaze is brought closer to me, as he blurrily focuses on my pillowcase's corner. I follow his look to realise there's a minute speck of blood there.

'The second man was the one who chose the location, John. The damp cold rotten warehouse where your body contracted pneumonia. A legacy of the poor conditions you were held in.'

I smile stoically to hide my sadness. 'You saved me, Sherlock. You got me out.'

'I arrived too late.' His voice trembles, vulnerable, small.

'No. I'm here, aren't I?'

Sherlock nods obediently, but I can tell he's still traumatised by the recent events. Can't blame him, so am I. Perhaps together we can heal what separately would be too much.

'What happened?' I ask for my bedtime story.

'Garages are dangerous places', Sherlock reproaches.

I flick up an eyebrow. 'Go on.'

'Can you not guess?' I frown, confused.

_The first man. I was found hypothermic. He struggled against the cold elements in a deserted patch of the road. This second man. My pneumonia. Troubles breathing. Carbon monoxide poisoning in his garage._

'The engine?' I confirm in a troubled whisper.

'Not at all. I had no hand on it at all. His wife, on the other hand, is having an affair with the mechanic. Oh, no, don't feel bad for her husband. He was having an affair with a waiter. I just made sure the wife learnt about it. She and the lover cooked it all up.'

I blink, tiredly.

'You make an incredible-'

He shushes me, by crossing a direct honest gaze with me for the first time. 'I didn't intervene. Don't pin it on me. Don't get me wrong. I'd done it with pleasure for what they have done to you, John. But I wouldn't leave you alone. You reacted better when I was around.'

'That was all very clever.'

He shrugs. 'High functioning sociopath, remember?'

'Not in a million years, you're not, Sherlock', I reply, grateful.

'You'd have done the same for me, John.'

I nod, seriously. 'In a slightly less spectacular way, yes.' I smile, finally less jittery than at first.

'The third man', Sherlock resumes, 'was the most vicious and violent. And that will be your treat tomorrow if you sleep now.'

_'What?'_ I plead at my friend. 'You can't hold back now!'

He leans forward to reach the bedside lamp. 'Oh, but I will. There's been enough excitements tonight, John.' He gets up and straightens his clothes. 'Good night, John. I'll be around if you need me.'

I nod at last, exhaustion draining my strengths to keep my eyes open.

''Night, Sherlock...'

_**.**_

Morning brought more surprises, just not quite the way I'd have hoped.

DI Greg Lestrade is a close friend and it was only fit that he'd be one of the first people I'd allow to see me like this, after my captivity. So I wasn't resentful when I heard his footsteps up the stairs - and Sherlock's room is an architectural piece of great acoustics from the whole building, such as I never suspected.

"He's not taking visitors, Lestrade."

"Yeah, well, you're here, innit?" There's misguided resentment in our friend's voice. _I don't get it._

"I'm busy, inspector!" I can hear Sherlock walk away towards his post, towards me.

"Sherlock!" Greg follows him swiftly. I don't think he realised I'd be in Sherlock's room.

'Hi, Greg.' I pretend it's nothing much. Hell, if I pretend enough I might even believe he can't see the obvious signs of recent torture and illness.

'Christ, John!'

I sigh. 'Yeah...'

'John, look, this is.. Police business.'

'Oh, you've got a case for Sherlock! Can I hear it?'

He shakes his head and threads unsteady fingers in his hair, ending up rubbing the back of his neck.

'I'm sorry, John. I'm here on professional functions. I've come to take a suspect into questioning. It's... I'm so sorry, mate. It's terrible seeing you like this.'

'I'm getting better every day', I tell the uncomfortable police officer, a friend, that hardly looks at me in the eye. Something, like Sherlock's framed periodic table on the wall, is vastly more captivating than the broken soldier confined to a bed. 'It's okay, Greg', I try to impress, concerned about his reaction.

He shakes his head briskly. 'It's not. You should be angry with me, because I couldn't find you. Most of all, you should be angry with Sherlock. He gave you a secret to keep that almost cost your life.' _That cost just about._

Greg Lestrade has always stood by Sherlock Holmes, defended the younger man's presence at crime scenes when Sherlock's name had not been built yet. Guided him emotionally when the young genius was at a loss. To see him resent Sherlock for the catastrophic end of this case is painful. Greg is breaking in his own way. 'Sherlock wouldn't have thought all this possible, Greg', I defend my stoic silent friend at the bedside.

'He won't do this again, either', Greg isn't even listening, and the dark promise lingers in the air.

'Greg...'

'I've come to question Sherlock Holmes for the murder of the man who masterminded your abduction, John.' _The third man._

'No.' I'm trembling now, and it takes all my strengths to keep it minimised.

'I'm here on work, John. You should tell Sherlock to come voluntarily and cooperate in the hope of a reduced sentence.'

I'm shaking, more than I'm proud of admitting, a low constant tremble that spreads throughout my body, banged up head to bruised toes. I look over to Lestrade, hardly concealing the sheer terror that is so vast inside me that it spills out in every trait of my expression and every sweaty pore in my palms and contracts painfully every muscle in my body. _No! I need Sherlock._ Without Sherlock I'm helpless at the face of my despair. We have become one synergetic unit that stands upright when its two elemental cores wouldn't.

This may just be the final blow, the one that makes the emotional pain too much, the one that precipitates the impending defeat that we've so narrowly escaped.

Lestrade is so sure Sherlock needs to pay for not reaching me faster, for not protecting me efficiently, for not being truly omniscient of the hidden threats that constantly loom over the both of us. He's angry, and upset, and he wants to protect me by doing his job, but right now going his job is taking away the glue that holds me together in this precarious state. _I can't take it._

'Please, don't', I mutter and it comes out as a whimpered vulnerable request. Truer to the form than I'd have hoped. But I'm beyond pride, these days. I'm also beyond hope. And this is just _too much_. I'm hyperventilating now, fast dizzily spinning into a panic attack that I have no fair chance to control. All as I'm being watched by Lestrade.

And when I should be mortified by shame, I find that I don't really care. _Sherlock being taken away from me is all my broken mind cares about._

'Don't do this to me', I beg, tears prickling at my eyes. Then I correct my shameful selfishness: 'To us. Lestrade, this is Sherlock we're talking about.'

Greg gives me a seasoned knowledgeable look. Then he stiffens and tries to explain: 'John, you don't know what he's done. What he's capable off. Hell, normally I wouldn't have thought it possible. But, without you, John, Sherlock is just not the same. You have been a good influence in Sherlock's life. But you just may have come too late, mate. What he did, you wouldn't be proud of. You don't want to know.'

'I did things in not proud of, in the war. There's nothing Sherlock can do that makes him smaller on my eyes, Greg.'

'This isn't the war', Greg points out at once, automatically. _Only it must have been, for Sherlock and I at least._

'Whatever he's done, he did it for me.' I mean it in full confidence, not just trying to persuade Greg.

'That's _sweet_, but it doesn't-' he starts, upset.

'No, you're misunderstanding me. What Sherlock did was because I put him up to it. I _told him _what to do. I_ told him_ who to go for, too. How else would he have _known_?'

'He's Sherlock', Greg says, flatly. He's not amused by my selfless defence of the flabbergasted genius by my side, weighing in my strategy, trying to roll with it, searching for the best manoeuvres to assure the wanted outcome. _I'll leave the thinking to the genius. I'm working on instinct alone._

'No, no one can believe that. I told Sherlock what to do and to whom. Sherlock alone wouldn't have known who to go for. I told him who, when and why. All the while, Sherlock was an unwilling participant. But he did it _for me_.'

'John, you don't have to do this', Greg sees right through me. _Take the blame, protect Sherlock._

'I want to', I insist cheekily. Greg sends Sherlock, still and strong at my side, a venomous look. _He blames Sherlock, it's so easy to see._ I notice blearily that they have finally crossed gazes, heightening the tension in the room. 'You'll have to put me under house arrest, Greg. Not that it makes that much of a difference to my everyday.'

'John, stop it.' He genuinely asks me, pained. _Perhaps, I hope upon hope, I managed to soften Greg's resentment._

'Don't know what you mean', I start, smugly, but with little triumph.

'John, it wouldn't be house arrest. Sure it wouldn't be jail, not yet, but you'd be transferred to a military hospital, I assume, at the best of chances.'

I smile tiredly. 'Been there, done that, no big deal.'

'John, you don't know what Sherlock has done. Don't _make me_ tell you...'

'I do know. More than you think. I'm not innocent, Greg.'

'I cant close my eyes to this, John!' he shouts, short-tempered, running desperate hands over his grey hound type short hair.

'Not asking you to. I'm pleading you to investigate deeper before you take Sherlock from me. You'll see evidences that he was _just_.'

'Just? Abandoning men to their deaths?'

'Death or justice, they knew it too.'

'John, this frozen up guy, he didn't-'

'Then _someone else_ intervened. Someone changed the outcome. So I'd be _alone_, so I'd _break_. They're not done with me. My death would only be too simple.'

'John!' He looks shocked.

_I guess I was too straight forward._

'Thanks for coming, Greg. I'm getting rather tired now. You need to decide, am I under arrest or not?'

'John...' he warns me, warily, chewing over his anger, so not to face his own guilt.

_**.**_


	134. Chapter 134

_A/N: Work keeps upsetting me, I guess. (Sorry). __**Part 4.**__ Hm, this just keeps flowing... (Sorry yet again.) -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Ever so slowly, my basic physiological needs must again be independently catered to.

The oppressive battle with the soothing effects of the morphine is under way, helped along by the fact that my body is truly healing the bruises, mending the broken bones, closing the wounds. All this labouredly slow process leaves me floored, exhausted to the brink, as is only natural. Sleep is therefore welcomed at all times, although sometimes it's still plagued with terrifying nightmares and panic attacks. Sherlock's steady constant presence has become my solid ground.

With the pneumonia mostly cleared off my system, I can now breathe without aid of a pressurised air and oxygen flow into my lungs through a nasal cannula.

I told Sherlock that since the nursing team took away the pressurised oxygen he could finally go back to his science experiments, bunsen burners and all, with considerably lower risk of exploding the flat.

He promised he'd try not to blow up 221B _later_.

Sherlock looked quite serious as he promised to return to one of his character defining hobbies. But then again, Sherlock knew I was trying to distract him. He would have none of that.

With his impatience harnessed and held back as much as he humanly can, Sherlock has been supportively present as I need to regain another basic life habit — eat.

It's been surprisingly difficult.

Awkwardly I recall all the times I berated Sherlock for his unhealthy diet patterns. Implicitly I was the good example to follow, so close and so present in his life. _Not anymore._

Food makes me nauseous, and I retch and my stomach cramps and bile rises up to my throat...

Or even just the thought of food does all this.

Haven't kept anything down yet.

_Sherlock is worried now._

The first few days I was too badly off. Mostly dwelling on unconscious waters, I couldn't be expected to consume solids or liquids on my own. So I was fed intravenously. The immediate circumstances dictated that need.

Hours turned into days, and days melted into weeks. Every time the nurses insisted I ate something to keep my stomach cramps down and ensure I didn't fall out of the natural habit of eating, I took the bland mushy food they gave me on a bowl and munched down a few spoonsful, eager eyes set on Sherlock who would never fail to praise me.

As soon as he turned his back on me, like black magic, the whole thing got convulsed off my nauseated body.

Sherlock never took the easy chance to berate me, like I so often did in different circumstances. He'd press his lips thin as if trying to contain from me a quivering lip from worry or a downturned brow of sadness. In fact, he showed little emotion about the food issue.

Maybe as a genius he realised it'd be unwise to create a negative association with the food I ate with such difficulty.

Today he's changed his tactics.

_Or maybe he just can't stand it anymore._

'You need to eat, John.'

I blink and an exhaustion fuelled burst of impatience roughly shakes off me: 'Gee, I wonder why I didn't think of _that_!'

He closes his hands to tight fists on each side of him. With a visible effort to control himself he insists: 'You need to eat, John, you know that.'

'Care to take my place one of these days?' I ask bitterly. It comes out more viciously than I intended.

'John...'

'You're enjoying this, aren't you?' I fight back darkly. Enjoying that he's the one on the high moral ground now, he's the one who can—

I'm struck dumb by the crumbling painful expression on my best friend's face. Stupid, _stupid_, of course he's not enjoying this, my condition, frail and vulnerable, not out of the woods yet. He's impatient, granted, as he sees his former healthy friend reduced to a heap of scars, bandages and half the body frame he once possessed, hooked up to drugs he's become dependent on, lost of his patient modest humanity that was as personality defining as being a doctor and a soldier.

I'm none of that now. I cannot fight or hold a weapon, I wouldn't even be able to stand up for long in my gingered legs. I'm temporarily suspended as a doctor — if I chose to perform my job at this time — given my opiates addiction.

Every single trait that defined me as been striped away.

And Sherlock asks me to _eat_.

Eating doesn't solve my problems. It just nauseates my further.

'John...'

Sherlock's patiently calling for my attention now. Sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for my return to the moment. He knows this has become a habit for me. That my mind wanders off from time to time as if incapable of carrying the strain of reality for too long. It hides deep within — but inside is no longer a peaceful safe place — and wanders in lands that are mysterious and closed to my spectator, before I can reign it in and refocus.

Sherlock worries when he sees me regress into myself. He cannot tell if it's a troublesome consequence or a healing mechanism.

_The lack of nourishment and of a proper diet can also be blamed, I suppose._

'I can't, Sherlock.' My confession comes out in a tight whisper.

'Don't say that', he asks me, so softly that one think he was addressing a precious child.

'You see me struggle', I start, tiresome.

'And I'll see you pull through', he assures me with a small confident smile, so genuine that it strikes me dumb again.

He refuses to lose his faith on me, such as he refused to let go of me while he frantically searched for his kidnapped friend.

_Sherlock's one clingy genius and I'm so privileged._

I try another half-full spoon of food, generously provided. I fight to push it down my scratched throat. Could have been the inevitable screams that got tore out of me in those sessions at the warehouse. Could be psychological damage, and I know only too well about that. Something — not sure what — seems to have permanently scratched my once confidence voice. The one I used to bark out orders in the army, the one I used to sooth scared patients, the one that I used to answer my phone and talk to people on a daily basis. This emotional pain is still trapped in my throat and is there at every bite of food.

_Don't think it'll ever go away._

'That's it. You're doing great, John.' Sherlock's smile is so warm and genuine that it could bring tears to my eyes. Thankful tears, prideful tears, longing-for-a-lost-past type of tears.

Maybe this is healing too. We can only hope.

_**.**_

"He's not quite the same anymore." I wake up to that feminine voice's lament. From the depths of my recollections I gather who the voice's owner is. Molly Hooper.

Sherlock's voice is soon to follow in the same vibrant energy: "Temporary".

Sherlock often does this when he's upset. Short brisk words thrown in on a conversation like sentences. He soon adds on: "John will soon be on his feet again."

_I look down on the bed where I lay; where I'm more often than not found these days._

Molly recognises the pain etched within the lines of my friend's face. "You can't keep this up, Sherlock. I can see it's breaking you. John's got nurses and doctors that can do most of the things you do."

"I won't let strangers be the ones taking care of my best friend."

_Sherlock knew, without me ever explicitly telling him, that I needed him so badly at this frail state._

"Yeah, I know", Molly pacifies. "He taught you that. But you see he's a doctor. It's not the same for you."

_I guess not._

"He's also my friend", Sherlock maintains stubbornly.

_Thanks, Sherlock, for still seeing me as a friend. For not losing sight of who I am despite my current condition._

"John's got a lot of friends. Maybe they can help too."

_Oh, yes, didn't think of anyone else..._

"Like Lestrade? Am I to trust John to Lestrade? The inspector is out to get me, in case you haven't worked that out."

_No, Greg is a friend, I'm sure of that._

"Greg is beside himself with all this. He... blames you. Don't take it personally. He can't deal with this yet. He feels guilty and blaming you is the easy way out. He's still your friend, and John's, deep down."

"Lovely", Sherlock says sarcastically. "Should I surrender John to such loyal friends?"

"You may have to. You can't do this alone", Molly tells him wisely.

"Watch me", Sherlock challenges in the same breath.

_Oh, Sherlock..._

"I can see you trying and I really admire you for that, Sherlock. But you're crumbling to pieces. What they did to John... He wasn't the only victim. That day you recovered your blogger from the warehouse it became clear there were two victims."

_Two victims? Me and Sherlock, she means. We both hurt._

"Nonsense. Sentimentality", the detective rejects briskly.

Molly pays him little attention.

"You know they weren't after John. They wanted to get to your secret, to you."

_Yes, the secret. Haven't forgotten the secret._

Sherlock grumps. "If you're worrying about me, Mycroft has upped the security on this place for John, and consequently me."

"I get a feeling it was the other way round", Molly tells him wisely. _Despite the legendary harshness between bickering brothers they care very deeply fir one another._

"You'd be surprised at all the takers in the let's-blame-Sherlock game." _Again, my friend is hurt, I can tell just by the nuances in his voice._

"John doesn't blame you."

_No, I don't. Listen to Molly, Sherlock._

There's a stunned two seconds pause and Sherlock returns: "No." That one word, uttered fondly. _He knows it, then._

"Why would you care about all the others, above John? Your best friend doesn't blame you."

_That's wise, Molly. The shy pathologist has just beat years of engrained manipulative reality bending from Sherlock._

"I miss him", Sherlock states simply, in the lost voice of a child. "The way we used to be. The rooftop chases, the tea making, the marksman's gunshots to save my life in the last possible second... I feel that I failed him when I took too long to get to him."

_Miss it too._

"You did only what he asked of you."

_That's right._

"Yes, I know."

_Do you really?_

"You told me that when John was being kidnapped he managed to leave you a message, Sherlock. _Go and protect the witness. Keep the secret._ You obeyed. That's why you took so long to come back. You saved a child's life, an innocent life that was dragged into danger because she witnessed a crime and she can identify a top mobster. That's what John wanted."

_Sherlock is not ready to stop blaming himself. All this time I've been so focused on my pain I was blinded to his._ "Perhaps if I'd been faster. If I had taken her somewhere else..."

"You took the girl to your parents. There can't be a safer location out there, Sherlock. You did good."

"While John was paying the price."

_Stop it._

_How can I make him understand? Release him from a guilt that is not his?_

_I can try to eat, Sherlock. Again and again. So we can go back to where we were. To the rooftop chases, to Greg and Sally eyeing us sideways, to Molly inviting us down to the morgue for a chat over a corpse._

"You couldn't have known what they were up to already. You left Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes independently in charge of rescuing John. The best in England."

"Wasn't enough."

"No, it wasn't. Turned out only you managed to make sense of the leads they left begin. Not even your brother could this time."

"He doesn't care about John like I do."

"No. Respect, definitely, but not friendship, love. You had the edge, the push to pull through. And you did."

"Too late."

"In time."

"Not really."

"Sherlock, if John was asked what he thought of it, what would John say?"

"I didn't ask him."

"That's not my question."

Sherlock's answer comes with a loud sigh. "He'd find me heroic, he always does."

"Yes, he does. He'd hate to be aware that you are beating yourself up, Sherlock. He'd not stand for that. Just because your friend is so lost at the moment with his pain and confusion don't you do him the disservice of treating badly whom he was ultimately trying to protect, who he'd give his life for — and I think he's proven just that with his loyalty. Sherlock, you need to forgive yourself in order to be there fully for John. And that entails knowing when to step away and come back stronger. He won't even blame you for that."

Sherlock's voice cracks as he states: "Can't leave him. Don't make me do that, Molly."

"No, of course not. Slowly, gently, just ease him to other people he can rely on. Nurses, doctors, security guards. You need to save and gather strengths in order to have some to give to him."

"I know."

"Then go and take a nap. Take John's room if necessary. I'll stick around while you sleep. If he wakes up, if he needs someone, I'll be here."

_Thanks, Molly. You heard her, Sherlock, off you go. I'll be here when you wake up._

"He doesn't want you or anyone else to see him like this, the scars, the IVs."

_It'll be fine. She's a doctor too. Just go._

"He doesn't have a choice. Being a friend means receiving as well as giving."

_Listen, Sherlock._

"He's not very good at that."

_I'll give it my best shot._

_**.**_


	135. Chapter 135

_A/N: Guys, I was really touched. I've been saying I'm upset. All in all, I came into this little heading space to vent. Shouldn't have. I often fall into the trap of believing that what I write in this heading has no impact whatsoever, it's my often coded but raw honest space. Could be laconic, informative, sarcastic, situational or just nonsense. As so, it's inevitably biased as well._

_I've been complaining of being upset because of work. Been working the work of two people, late nights, no breaks, more work load coming in than ever before, appliances malfunctioning, sparse resources, incomplete indexes, ineffective painkillers, and people sneaking in extra work for the sake of seeing me frazzled or to see if they can get away with what they shouldn't._

_The absent ones are now returned and need to shout out loud how needed they are, how __perfection and foresight were nowhere to be found in their absence. It has started. (It just might break my heart.)_

_Still upset, therefore. (Sorry.)_

_This is a big A/N and a not so big chapter. More explanations and links to the blanks left behind in upcoming chapters._

_**Part 5. **__No end in sight because I want to see if I can milk this further. Hopefully it's cathartic for the state I'm in, nowadays. -csf_

_2nd A/n: Many thanks to Laura for pointing out my spelling troubles and she was very good at reading my mind as to what I meant to write. My apologies to all, and I'm hoping it's better now. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Sherlock was the one to watch out for. The posh, highly articulate, scientific genius, that had in his sharp tongue and resourceful methods of investigation the power to subdue an audience. He was the vortex of attention, the role model, the disguised hero. You'd be lucky to exchange some words with him on a seemingly level ground. He was the one built out of hero material. He attracted the praise he basked on, and he deserved it.

I was the sidekick. The common guy who no one took for a threat. I was the blogger, the mediator, the private secretary, _the vehicle to get to Sherlock_.

Danger was implied and I wouldn't have turned away had I known how deep it ran. Whether it spread to me by association with my genius friend or it targeted me to breach Sherlock Holmes' defences, I always faced the danger head on.

_I won't ever regret it._

The day I got kidnapped, I knew this former soldier had run out of luck. Just like the day I couldn't dodge a sneaky bullet to my shoulder on foreign hot sands, I felt the moment building all during the day, like a bad premonition.

I knew I had been followed that morning, when I was on my way to the clinic. And even though I managed to lose my tail by entering the busy market, the place where I was meant to be all day long was a mere internet search away.

Work kept me busy, and often I refilled my coffee cup, taking measured looks into the waiting room when doing so. I'm no Sherlock and I can't deduce people's lives from their faces and clothes. But I can tell something is wrong when someone spends six consecutive hours on an uncomfortable plastic chair of a waiting room and makes no effort to be seen by one of the doctors or nurses.

I knew it was time to tip Sherlock off.

_Take the secret away, they're onto us._

One text message, seemingly innocent enough.

Maybe my phone was bugged.

With no trace on Sherlock and a written proof that I was aware of the secret's location, I became their primary target.

Soon they made their move.

_Reality would never be the same again._

_**.**_

Sherlock tells me my shoulder is not healing up properly. He says it seriously, sternly. I feel the vulnerability of an old wound deep into my core. As if he was berating me for not healing properly. My injuries were so severe that my body can't put itself together again.

'Stop it!' he snaps at me, angrily. I look up to him with fear and terror alike. Why is he so angry at me? Sherlock realised my breathing has been halted to a gasp and faces me straight on. 'Don't think like that', he orders me. 'You are going to be fine. It's all going to be like the old days, John. I need you, and you are going to be healthy again.'

If it wasn't so serious and sad I could have giggled. _Sherlock, you can't order me back to health!_

_It's too much for my friend to handle._

'Sherlock...' I start.

'Stop it', he repeats more calmly, still full of emotion. 'You agree we need to get you okay, John.'

_Yeah, of course I do. What's this all about now?_

'I told you', he answers my unspoken thoughts again, 'your shoulder isn't resetting right.'

Finally I realise where this conversation is leading. I need to be properly x-rayed in a hospital. I need to leave the security of 221B and face the world out there again.

_I'm not ready._

Suddenly Sherlock is upon me, urging me to breathe at a steady pace and prompting pillows behind my back, raising me up. I'm wheezing, all the air is sucked out of the room, and the familiar sight of furniture and green eyes is spinning around defiantly.

_I'm having an anxiety attack, aren't I?_

The walls are closing in on me, I'm shaking and falling and lost-

Sherlock 's desperate hug is as uncharacteristic as damaging to me. Despite the good place it comes from it adds up to my claustrophobia, the loud noises and sharp colours, the"too much" vortex that keeps pulling me under. I'm shaking under my best friend's grasp, and I'm no longer sure if he's holding me together or if I'm fighting to be released. _I can't do that, push away Sherlock, he's new at this comforting lark. It'll hurt him irreparably._

His fingertips burn my skin where they touch with a well meant iron clasp.

'It's okay, John, it's okay.' His mantra breaks through the swirling fog filled with lost thoughts and painful sensations that fills my mind.

_It'll never be okay again, Sherlock. _A deep resentful voice lashes out from inside me and I'm startled with its hatred, my hatred. It's raw, and ugly, and foul. Maybe I'm like this now. Broken, tainted, damaged.

_Sherlock needs to get away while he can._

I try to push him off me, his attention, his care, all those generous traits that betray the vulnerable position in reduced to.

_He won't have it._

Redoubling his grasp to the point of pain, he hushes me softly. 'It's okay, John. I'm here to help. I'm your friend, remember?'

I'm shaking throughout now. The room is dissolving into a greyish all-abiding mess. Suddenly I recognise I'm no longer in a safe place. I'm back at that warehouse. I can feel the rust and stagnant waters under my fingertips as I clasp for purchase. I'm not alone. I can feel the cold foreign hands invading my thoughts, my discomfort, my pain. I wish I was alone now. But I belong here. In this mud, in this filth. I'm not important, the secret and Sherlock are the one's who matter and I'm someone's punching bag.

_'...ohn!...'_

I'm delusional now, as I was then. Sherlock's voice kept me company back back here, protected me from the deepest blows. I could swear I hear Sherlock from a distance, holding on to me. But that would never happen. Sherlock is safe, far away, I saved him and now there is no one to save me, to take me far away into safety.

I'm the last link on the chain and I need to hold on strong till Sherlock and the secret are safe.

Maybe then he'll remember to come and get me.

Pain, fear, cold are my only constant companions now.

No, I need to huddle into a small ball, make myself small and disappear, maybe I can trick them if I'm small, they won't see me, they won't know I'm here, they won't come back to-

No, not that, please never _that_ again.

_'Joh...!'_

This where I belong now, in an endless heap of pain and misery. This is who I am now.

This is just one of the good days, where I get to keep my sanity.

It's blessed because I can still bear this pain. It's not like the others.

_'Please...'_

I'd swear I can still hear the Sherlock I conjured in my mind. That's funny, he usually leaves when I don't want him to see me like this. Beaten and torn inside out.

_'Breathe...'_

He'd go on and on about cardiac arrhythmias if he were here. He'd think I'm so frail, wouldn't he? Sherlock better not see me like this. Sherlock better never come back for me after all.

_'...is fine!'_

Nothing can ever be fine again, Sherlock.

_**.**_


	136. Chapter 136

_A/N: Apologies for the delay. __**Part 6 **__of that one I was writing because I was upset.__Kindly remember English is not my first language and if you're a stickler for good grammar and spelling you should turn this off right now._

* * *

_Hm... "I said 'dangerous' and here you are..." -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Sherlock wants me to get out of bed and have a small wander in the flat. I'd venture a guess that he's been reading my medical encyclopaedia again. To a bed ridden recovering patient, movement is beneficial to improve blood circulation and prevent the formation of blood clots and embolisms.

Or maybe he's challenging this powerful image of me, frail and collapsed on a bed. His once healthy, practical, hands-on friend was always up for a cuppa while relaxing on his armchair at the end of a long day. And Sherlock was certainly no stranger to my habits. But most times he saw me up and about, working, cooking, cleaning, running after the bad guys. I can hardly recall the last time Sherlock saw me so inactive as asleep, and it wasn't even on my bed. I had probably fallen asleep in the sofa, with the telly on, after another double shift.

Even when cases called for my assistance in the middle of the night, more often than not Sherlock called me from downstairs through my phone. It helped that I've once chinned him when I woke up abruptly in the middle of the night. Being a soldier I have automated middle-of-the-night reflexes that can turn out painful for intrusive flatmates, I guess.

It's been rare that Sherlock has seen me like this - _fallen_. Again, I'm still a soldier at heart. I keep strong. I stand straight. My shoulders eventually sag and my old limp faintly returns with extreme exhaustion, but I always fight every outward sign of vulnerability. I hide them. I've never allowed Sherlock to see me fallen. Never have, till now.

It was pointless after what he saw, what he could deduce from the marks on my body, when he found me at the warehouse.

As I spend my days laying in bed, I'm a fallen soldier. And in Sherlock's eyes, I'm not truly recuperating till I fight to grasp the proud stance of the soldier once again, till I look like the John Watson he knew.

Sherlock doesn't quite do social cues like other people. I will never believe him to be the sociopath he boasts he is when he wants to annoy his audience. However I can recognise some immature quality to the raw immediate way in which his mind forms associations of images and concepts, so fast and brilliant. It's essential to his Work, and it's the mark of a creative mind. In my present circumstances, his gift has multiplied the pain he was subjected to through me.

_This isn't over yet._

Sherlock Holmes saved me from imprisonment and torture but he, himself, is still in pain, with the aftermath of my predicament. It won't end for him till I go back to my healthy, unconcerned, routine self. And that, I'm afraid, I may never fully achieve again.

_For Sherlock, I keep trying._

So today, I'm paying my friend my full attention and trust as I see him checking my stays with the blood pressure cuff on my arm. _I could tell him my BP is fine, but I've found that this manual routine comforts him more than any of my verbal assurances could._

'So... Am I alive?' I mock, with a dark humor that I seem to have found in some lost depth of me after the ordeal, and lately I've been using as a new trait of personality. 'Is my sister Harry any richer by inheritance? Is she going to get our father's watch at last? Are you really going to disappoint her and her seven cats?'

'John...' Sherlock hushes me, putting the BP cuff and statoscope away in the nightstand drawer.

I purse my lips tight, glancing down at my left wrist, swollen and enveloped in bandages to cover the ravaging left underneath. 'Not much use nowadays for the damned wristwatch anyway... Maybe I should just gift it to her. You know she always wanted it?' With my question I finally look up at my friend's eyes. They are damp and deeply multicoloured. I'm left stunned by the raw display of emotion contained in them. It feels like full oceans and tempest waves are fighting in there, stirring those ocean bottoms and bringing to surface all tinges of algae green, rock greys, sandy browns and even flecks of coral red. His eyes are lively and so conflicted in colour as in the emotions they betray. His great mind seems to be as restless behind them as the oceans pulsing in his irises.

Suddenly he grasps me by the shoulders, vibrant. 'I won't let you, John. You should know that. I won't let you give up and give yourself to waste. I won't let you give away your most prized possessions, the things you'd grab onto till the end, because for you it feels like you've reached the end. That's a mistake from an exhausted mind. This is not the end. It's not even near it. Yes, you've fallen down, John. Harder than ever before. But you're returning. Your body is healing, your mind is fighting, you're coming back home. I can see it, clearly, as I can see you. John, you are doing great and I'm staying with you every step of the way. Now, tell me', he's squeezing me tighter now, just a millimetre away from a painful grasp, 'tell me that you've understood.'

I nod, seriously. Funny enough, I never thought to verbalise it - and how that absence of words directly failed his command - till he shakes me between his sprawled open hands.

'Tell me', he insists. 'I need to hear you say it to me, John.'

'I'm not giving up, Sherlock', I vow honestly, eyes steady on the ocean storms he carries within. He faintly smiles and that minute movement changes the way the light is hitting him. His eyes look more serene under this new light. The green algae remains afloat but there are less of those ragged-edges grey rocks and icy pale blue translucencies.

He's calmer now, having heard my promise, and he finally removes his hands. Nevertheless I can still feel the hot palm imprints atop my arms for a while longer, as if my body longed for the permanent close presence of the person it recognises as my saviour.

When Sherlock is so near me, that's when I feel the safest.

'You need to shower, John.'

I frown, taken aback. Sherlock is nonplussed as he waits for my response.

I'm blushing; that's my natural response to my friend's matter-of-fact piece of information. 'No', I refuse. Ever since the warehouse I've taken care of my hygiene by spot washing. It's medically sound and perfectly adequate.

'Your wounds have healed considerably and if modesty is your concern', Sherlock adds pointedly, 'rest assured it's both unimportant and too late.' _Ta, Sherlock, way to cheer me up!_

He smirks as he perceives my expression.

'John, you are double-bluffing yourself. For once, you're finding excuses not to bathe fully in one go, and for another you are unwilling to face the reason why. You must be aware of some new scars in your body.'

'I'm not a vain person', I tell my friend, crossly.

'Didn't say that. You...' he hesitates for a couple of seconds '...don't want to face it all at once.'

I just raise my chin, proudly. 'My body is still weak', I tell him, but even I know I'm looking for a way out. _Damn it._ Sherlock's candidness makes me feel like I'm actually trying to hide from myself as he implies.

_Challenge accepted. _'Let's do it', I tell Sherlock. He looks surprised. He shouldn't be._ I'm a fighter._

_**.**_

Pain and brokenness are inexorable barriers as I reach the annexed bathroom in heavy, shuffled, uneasy steps. Sherlock is always in my line of sight. A step ahead of me, arms reaching out into the space between us in a silent steady promise of support, himself materialising as a very alive image of what I lost and want to achieve again. Sherlock. Sherlock. Step by step, I bully my body into moving forwards, into pain and relief alike, through rigid muscles, the stretching if tight stiches, the cringing of my recently reset shoulder. In a weird way, as the pain washes over me, I feel like I'm being cleansed, I'm leaving behind the restraints of who I've become at the warehouse. The horrors I've survived have been weighing me down as shackles bound to the epicentre of all horrors. This is me, walking away, breaking free.

'That's it, John! You're doing great!'

His smile is a prize in itself, but he doesn't realise it and leads me on with honest words. I let them wash over me, empower me, as I push through the barriers of both body and mind.

I reach the lavatory nearing exhaustion. My body takes up too much energy mending the bones, tissues and muscles. It leaves me meagre resources for frolicking strolls around 221B.

'Take a breath and have a seat', Sherlock advises me as he helps me lower myself to a helpful stool. By its fortunate positioning, I'd assume Sherlock foresaw its need wisely.

'Ta.' I gulp down an exhaustion spike taking the form of nausea.

Sherlock refuses to let me brew over this. He's already unbottoning my pyjamas top and swinging it around my shoulder sling. I blush and look away, feeling rather exposed. He can now see clearly - under the bathroom's ceiling lights - the mess I've been left behind with.

I come back to reality with a flinch, as I feel the soft touch of warm fingertips atop my bicep muscle. I glance straight at Sherlock. His expression is cloudy and guarded but with the utmost respect he has frozen his hand mid-air, just ghostly grazing over my skin, waiting for my permission or rejection.

I sigh and close my eyes tight, trying with all my might to hold back my useless emotions, pouring down over me.

It takes me a couple of minutes before I can steady myself to look back at Sherlock, who has remained frozen as a statue for my benefit, waiting for my decision. I nod sharply and take a deep intake of breath when his fingertips land on my exposed skin again. Goosebumps flair all over my arm, further highlighting the red raw scar tissue across my bicep.

'Double edged serrated knife', he analyses in full detachment. 'Twenty centimeters blade. Old. The tip is blunt. Scotland Yard's evidence, reference 9L2 342 882. The same knife that...' his voice fades into inaudible as his fingertips reach upwards to the base of my neck. I nod sharply, he got it right.

'There were questions being asked.'

His fingers trace the thin line over my pulsating neck where the evidence remains. 'Held with enough pressure and focus to rupture the skin, but stationary. He wanted you to talk, not to sever your jugular.'

'I guessed that much', I mutter, suddenly croaky.

Sherlock's eyes turn sharp like the steel from a gun, as he brings his gaze straight into mine. 'This scar is significant. Speaking of it makes your voice falter. Why is it?'

I shake my head. _No._ 'Don't know.'

'Yes, you do!' he snaps back, impatient, childish, just for a second. Then he regains control and swallows thickly. 'Sorry. Let's carry on.'

'He told me he had found you, Sherlock.' The words come out if my mouth in a strenuous speedy confession that sends shivers down my body and further drowns my voice. My gaze is unfocused, lost between past and present. 'He told me I could now talk, because you had also, and he just wanted to confirm what you had told him. He had mistakenly hurt you too much and you had died... calling out for me, as you died.' I lower my head into my shaking hands and give in to the tremors raking my body. Tears of frustration, hurt and relief alike are flooding my senses until all I can taste is the salt in my tears and the iron taste of my blood as I bite down on my lip. Long arms envelop my head and shoulders, wrapping around me, in protection and comfort alike.

'I didn't know, John', he whispers, heartbroken if I'm to trust his voice.

'It's alright, you're okay, Sherlock', I state the obvious, shaking my head and trying to recover my ground.

'Thanks to you', he acknowledges solemnly.

_**.**_

Sherlock leans into me gently. With a soft sad voice he asks me: 'I need you to trust me, John.' Serious, stoic even, I nod. Sherlock has got my full trust from that first day we met.

He helps me up and guides me to the shower cabin. Not even worrying about closing the glass door he keeps himself on its limit, within reach, before turning on the warm water.

The full blown cacophony of feel, as the water rolls over my exposed skin, is tantalising. A multitude of touches from every single water droplet falling from the shower head spreads its warmth over my skin. The feeling keeps multiplying as I register every sensory receptor flaring up, alive, in a symphony of colours and pleasure.

_It's a hot shower_, I try to repress my giddiness, too overwhelmed by the warmth enclosure.

'It's... nice', I mutter, as I can feel my aching overstrained muscles relaxing at my shoulders and back; their metaphorical load washing away temporarily.

Suddenly embarrassed by the joy in taking from a simple shower, I open my eyes to Sherlock. Has he noticed?

I can't tell. He's busying himself with spreading a dollop of shower gel in a sponge. As he grasps me, expectantly staring at him, he hands me the sponge. I make short use of it, efficient and fast. The wondrous feeling the water created on my skin is fading to the back of my mind. I was as an oversensitive infant, dazzled even.

I finish the shower gel as fast as I can, but no matter the soaring usage of my energy resources, I'm feeling drained as it is.

Sherlock seems to sense it because he grabs the shampoo bottle - his good one, not my supermarket brand one - and steps into the shower cabin as if he possessed no shame nor boundaries, fully clothed and all. Immediately the front of his shirt gets drenched and heavy with water and his hair gets somewhat pasted to his forehead, but he persists. With the shampoo and the advantage of the inches of height that separate us (more so because he's got shoes on and I'm barefoot) he takes his gentle pale skin hands to my greying blond hair and gently emulsifies the shampoo. Like a child, I just bow my head and let those dextrous fingers encircle, press and scrub my headache away. The spicy scent of the shampoo adds to my senses as it cascades down my body till it drains at my feet. Soon it's over and Sherlock turns off the water. He reaches backwards to grab my towel and wraps it around me. The added weight buckles my knees and he grabs me tightly as I'm already collapsing.

'It's okay, John, it's okay. Nearly there now.'

I shake my head to refocus and reach for the cabin walls to keep myself straight. Immediately Sherlock backtracks and pushes me out of the cabin with him.

'You did good, John. Now let's get you to rest.'

_Good idea, Sherlock. Can't imagine how I did this on a regular basis._

Coming back is a long strenuous process, and I'm committed to it.

_**.**_


	137. Chapter 137

_A/N: Christmas' done. Spent part of it with my little cousins, writing and illustrating a collaborative story about the youngest one's beloved stuffed toy. (I was trying to quieten them down.) I wrote and illustrated, upon popular demand, the story of __a hedgehog that gets into trouble__. (I didn't pitch it, so – go figure.)_

_The grown-ups in my family are a difficult audience. They deemed our impromptu story __too childish__; the majority of authors being children. I didn't see the adults trying to draw a frightened hedgehog, floating down a stream, after scaring away a lurking monster by chance (!) Next year, I'll leave the storyline to them, shall I?_

_**Part 7**__ of the old upset-mode. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Sherlock's been my rock and my support. Through my friend I again opened my eyes to the world that had so badly mistreated me. Tortured and left to die in a cold dirty warehouse, it was my best friend and personal hero who found me and brought me home.

What would have been some novel's perfect ending was in my reality a painful new beginning for me. It'd take time before I was whole again, before I recuperated my voice, before I risked feeling the world I had left behind when it was all too much. I had successfully evaded reality, till I was a stranger to its meanders, and all seemed foreign, ritualistic, hollow. I had forgotten what everyday life felt like. A basic raw approach to pain, hunger, cold, fear filled my days. I held on to very little outside my damaged self, Sherlock being the main exception. It was my friend who gently enveloped me in a softer kinder reality and extracted me from my self-contained cocoon of safety.

Time had started again when Sherlock took hold of this broken soldier. He faithfully kept himself steady throughout my comeback, ever present before time's constant grinding mechanisms once again beat to the rhythm of my days and my heart.

Feeling, however, took somewhat longer to seep back into my soul. Detachment from the cold harsh reality had become an effective escape mechanism I depended on to bear through the passing days. Feeling comes in many layers, and not always the deepest, truest, most authentic ones resolve themselves first. Anger, that's the one I felt deeper. Fear had become my constant companion, a telltale sign that I survived thus far. Loss gently mellowed itself into every open crevice and hole, filling me up. Hope blossomed at last, despite my weary warnings to an ever too trusting heart. It was as if, by adopting Sherlock's best reasoning about the world I still couldn't fully grasp myself, I slowly accepted my friend's feelings as well. I didn't expect to absorb his care, his patient devotion, his confidence in my return. At times, they felt like the cruel deliriums of a younger man, who's never been to war, who's never been shattered into so many pieces as I have. Somehow, Sherlock's steady devotion trickled down in his every kind gesture towards me, and I absorbed it through my battered skin. Whenever I woke up from a shattering nightmare and he was holding firm to my forearms because I had been clawing invisible shadows off me again, his warm pressing hands felt like they were burning through my feverishly cold skin. It felt like his intent strength was boring into me as forcefully as his will for me to get better has ever been. I took it all in. His energy, his hope, his assuredness that we could go back to the start.

Sherlock has gone beyond the call of duty. If ever there was an unreasonable man who claimed not to understand the social dynamics of friendship but acted upon its most sacred laws at all the important times, it is my best mate. He has been by my side, tirelessly, day and night. He has burnt himself down to the ground in the process. He has deduced my every need, balanced my mood swings, filtered my anger, quieted my fears, guided my hopes.

My mind and Sherlock's have become so deeply intertwined during this healing, he has sustained so much of my brokenness for me, that I have projected my own frail soul alongside Sherlock's stronger one. It's an act of faith in itself. I have learnt to see myself through his eyes as a strong fighter, despite my battered body, a brave tenacious man, even through my panic attacks and nightmares, an important person, because I seem to matter this much to Sherlock.

Perhaps our synergy has become a step too far. It's time I take my weight on my own legs and push myself up – proud, strong, independent.

_Sherlock is all for it. _He trusts I can do it. He's been carrying me this far and he's now willing to step back and watch me stand strong on my own.

Slowly he has done the unthinkable. In small steps, he has started giving me space.

_Odd enough, it's been painful for the both of us._

We read each other so easily that we've became used to having long silent conversations. Private, deep, meaningful. Sherlock anticipates my needs, my aches, my moods. I sense his ideas, his brilliant mind whirlwinds, better than ever, and sustain them as he solves Lestrade's cases at a distance. Sherlock assures me I'm still his conductor of light, as he takes a seat in his armchair, opposing mine, hands flickering through pages of manila files and the restless fingertips twitching over the keys of a laptop (well, my laptop, yes, but I haven't the heart to claim it back right now).

Despite early reservations, Greg caved in and accepted Sherlock back like a prodigal son coming back repented. I didn't agree with nor did I promote that reconciliation. In my eyes, Sherlock has done nothing wrong in having taken a detour before saving me, in order to keep a child's life protected. Greg seems to be of the opinion that the child was to be his responsibility such as I was Sherlock's.

_Sherlock only ever did what I asked of him. He hadn't any idea of what I was going through, holding on till he came for me._

Despite the beautiful reunion, Greg still isn't so accepting of Sherlock having wasted time before coming to save me. Even if the lapsed time ensured a child's life remained unharmed. Greg still blames Sherlock, deep down, for not having been faster, smarter – _anything_ that had kept me safe.

'I got this', Sherlock assures calmly over the official looking letter that Greg has handed him, even though it's addressed to me.

Greg tilts his head as he stares straight at our friend, giving him one of his patented don't-kid-me-Sherlock looks.

Right, you've got this', he pronounces in an acerbic doubtful tone that rattles my insides in Sherlock's defence.

'It needs to be done, so it'll be done', Sherlock states. Somehow I can read right through his impassionate attitude. Whatever this is about, it's big. Dangerous, even.

'Sherlock', I jump to conclusions, 'You're not taking a dangerous case without me.'

'Definitely not', he agrees so fast it looks like he's answering out of instinct more than reason. There's some latent amusement in his expression as if I've reached the most erroneous conclusions, and yet so characteristic of mine that he receives them fondly. We both face Lestrade straight on.

Something in our cohesive stance seems to frazzle the inspector's nerves, though. Greg takes a step forward till he's much too close to Sherlock, in an active defiance, looking down on the younger detective: 'So, you have thought this through, have you? Weighted out every possible scenario, ranked them mathematically in terms of odds, and all that? Maybe even searched for patterns, developed alternative scenarios, plotted their results in nice neat graphs? Is that how it works inside that scientific head of yours, Sherlock? Have you come to a brilliant successful answer?'

I let my mouth fall open, stunned, before I catch myself. I know I've been out of touch with reality as people usually experience it, but this... looks like an epic showdown between Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes, right in the centre of 221B's living room and I can't tell what sparked it.

'Guys...' I warn, at a loss.

'Never mind, John', Sherlock tries to appease me.

'No, let him', Greg sustains. 'He's a factor too, is he not? Will you consider him _this time_?'

Realisation hits me, and it's as painful for me as it is for the two other men in the room.

_Greg assumes our friend has coldly outweighed the mathematical chances of saving me and the child and found the girl's chances more favourable, thus sacrificing me. Greg thinks I was an afterthought at a rescue mission where Sherlock assumed I'd be able to handle myself independently._

Sherlock glances at me and requests, more humbly than I'd imagine: 'Stop it'. He's not defending himself, I understand. He's asking for me to be spared of this conversation. But painful as it is to all of us, Sherlock and Greg need to get this off their chests.

Greg shortens the distance with Sherlock to a point that is beyond uncomfortable and with an accusing stretched out finger tapping at Sherlock's white shirt, he voices in almost a low growl: 'Why did you take so long to get to John once you had taken that girl into safety, Sherlock? Why come back here to Baker Street? Did you sit down on your posh armchair', Greg points it out behind him without moving another muscle, his own expression drenched in the room's dusk and Sherlock's exposed to the window's incoming daylight, highlighting his every flicker of emotion, 'and finally thought to yourself _something is missing here_? _Tea is missing here. John's being lazy again, I have no tea. By the way, where is John? Do I really need to go out and get him from life threatening danger so I can have my tea?_'

I blink, behind the two of them. _That's harsh, Greg._ I'm sure Sherlock didn't waste time coming here and–

Sherlock's head drops minutely. He confesses, tiredly: 'I came here, yes, but I had a reason, Lestrade. I'm assuming you read my earlier witness statements.'

'Yeah, I did', Greg says coldly. 'Why, Sherlock? John needed you. Why come to an empty flat and just lounge for ten minutes?'

A small ironic smile pops into Sherlock's expression lines but immediately it fades. 'Lounging would have been most appreciated. No, Greg. I came here to meet my brother. The one person that I must keep off Scotland Yard's records at all times. I needed Mycroft's help.'

'About the child? She was in one of the safest bunker-type locations in all England.'

'No, not about the girl. I needed my brother's cold reasoning to guide me as I searched for John'. He glances at me.

The moment our gazes meet my knees buckle and I must take a seat. I do so in the closest piece of furniture, that happens to be the coffee table. Comfortable enough, as my thoughts spin around at high speed inside my head. Too many, too heavy, I feel like I'm about to burst.

_It's Reichenbach all over again._ Sherlock will always call for his brother's meddling, no matter the cost to me. Had Sherlock arrived earlier for me, he would have taken down the three men before they exited the warehouse, sure that they were leaving me to die. A mere minutes' difference would have resulted in their timely arrest. I had held on for so long, but my mind was to inevitably break in the end. What a difference those ten minutes could have made...

I look up at Sherlock, questioningly. He clears his throat and answers my gaze out loud: 'I didn't trust myself, John. My mind was too clouded by emotions. I called for backup. Mycroft would only meet me here, not at some dirty warehouse with lurking danger. My brother is too lazy to engage in a fight, but he wouldn't deny me his cold reasoning to second mine. Together we plotted your rescue, John. I thought... I was _sure_ there was enough time. I see now how it was just wishful thinking.'

Greg inserts himself in our private conversation, angrily: 'John was held against his will, Sherlock, and you took your time?'

'Mycroft... No, I take full responsibility. I was convinced it was the best option. Storming in on the warehouse without planning could have resulted in the captors taking desperate measures over their hostage. I couldn't stand that.'

Greg raises a sarcastic eyebrow. 'Instead, you found an empty warehouse. How convenient.'

Sherlock takes a step forward towards Greg in such a manner that the inspector is actually forced to step back so their heads won't bang each other. Startled, Greg is looking deep into Sherlock's eyes as our friend assures: 'It wasn't cowardice. I'd give my life for John's. These past weeks I've often wished I could do that trade and make him well again.'

'I believe you', Greg mutters off his own accord, gaze straight into Sherlock's eyes.

'I calculated my chances of getting John out of imprisonment safely on my own and deemed it to dangerous for John. In following my clouded reason I actually failed John the most. You see, John would have unabashedly thrown himself into danger to save me, if things were reversed. He'd wear his heart on his sleeve and put both our lives on the line. I'm now sure that's what I should have done, instead of listening to Mycroft's advice. My brother's too much of a stickler for keeping me alive.'

I'm shaking throughout, I realise. Maybe I'm cold. I still need to tell them: 'Those three men broke me, Sherlock, and I'm a trained soldier.'

'No, you couldn't ever be–'

I ignore his interruption because I need to voice this before I lose it altogether: 'I'm with Mycroft on this one, Sherlock, no matter how much it pains Greg. They could have exploded or set fire to the warehouse when you came in. Besides, the damage had already been done.' I realise I'm rubbing absent-mindedly the scars on my wrists and force myself still. 'I'm just glad you came in, Sherlock, instead of Mycroft's agents. I'm sure he must have volunteered them.'

'Practically begged me to take them', Sherlock answers as he regains his composure.

'I'm a private man, Sherlock. I'm glad you were the first in. You gave me the strengths to endure the rest... Speaking of which, is that letter an official invite for me to give my statements and identifications at the Yard, Greg?'

The DI blinks. 'Yes, it is.' He clears his throat. 'Sherlock's deductive powers must be rubbing off on you, John.'

I divert my glance to the window where the curtains filter the daylight coming in. 'Not at all. I knew this time would come. Been bracing myself for it for a long time.'

'It's for the best, John. It will give you closure.' Greg's firm reasonable voice is steadying.

'Out of the three men, one of them is still out there. While that happens, I can never truly relax', I tell them, monochord, trying not to allow any of my anxiety to show through my proud soldier stance.

_It's a new day and new battles to face._

'Well, good thing you've not alone then', Sherlock assures me after exchanging glances with Greg.

_**.**_


	138. Chapter 138

_A/N: If anyone out there worries, and in case I take longer than I intend to finish and post in these upcoming hectic days, there'll be no spoilers (assuming that I can actually watch the Special). In fact, the next (almost) two "Just drop it, John" plots after this one are already written, so I'll __just drop__ them as I get the chance (see what I did there?). Oh, and I must come back to that unfinished one; shame on me._

_**Part 8**__ of my upset-plotline. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

It's all still a blur to me, most days. Memory is a funny thing. The lingering despair is no match to the faded cacophony of input recollections from the warehouse. It's ever present as a deep feeling of doom, misery and worthlessness, more than in the sensory recollections left in me. I remember more vivid details of the desperate times when I sleep than I seem to recall awake. It is, therefore, a disappointment that my damaged body needs to recover through sleep so much.

Sherlock never asked me what happened. One simple question with such a painful and complex answer. Of all the people in my life, Sherlock was the one who needn't ever ask. He could always see the infinitely minute details and deduce answers to his questions so easily. Everything is a tell for Sherlock.

My tangled scars and bruises practically scream answers to Sherlock's silent questions.

What has happened couldn't be made more painfully obvious by my spoken recount.

So I kept quiet, protected in the sanctuary of my own grief, fighting to find my way out at my own pace.

If anything, Sherlock has promoted my slow, tentative approach. He too seemed to know instinctively that too fast would crush me back to the unstable pieces I was trying to keep together.

Weeks have past since time has started again, since Sherlock's strong fingers made contact with the broken pieces of a soldier he once knew. My friend has taken upon him the herculean task of holding me together while I heal.

_Not putting me together, no, that's a task for me alone, if I can._

And stubbornly I try; for Sherlock, for me, for all the good times I miss. _I must be able to rebuild._

If at the protection of 221B I was safe and getting stronger by the day – only yesterday I've come to sit at the kitchen table for a light meal, shared with a friendly and positive Molly Hooper and a bright-eyed but contained Sherlock Holmes – life is about to step in to give me a new challenge.

_I know it's coming._

_**.**_

I keep telling Greg I'm going to be okay. The clothes will cover most of the scars, and as for the others, their presence can't damage further the brokenness that was already there even before I met Sherlock Holmes.

Greg's loyal brown eyes never fail to flicker in Sherlock's direction at my repeated assurance that I'll be fine, just before they dampen.

_I'm grateful too, Greg._

Whatever blame Greg has once assigned on an underperforming genius for not being even more extraordinary, Greg seems to recognise Sherlock making up for it now. And Greg can recognise the extraordinary devotion of our friend, one that most ordinary people would falter through. _Sherlock is ever so extraordinary._

I'm glad they got to see eye to eye before we face the third man.

Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes have been putting together evidence against the most vicious of my attackers, the one that remains at large, monitored by the Holmes brothers, but not yet caught. Somehow, the legal justice system seems to be not enough.

Greg has insisted that Sherlock should not potentiate the payback with this third man. At first I thought Greg didn't want to see Sherlock's hands darken further with such deeds. Now I've come to realise Greg wants to take part on it. He too wants to participate in the effort to make my world right again.

That I need to stand up before strangers and detail what has been done to me and by whom is a vicious attack on my newly reclaimed bravery.

_It's like having all my wounds being reopened over and over again._

_Deep down I know it never ends; because it's part of me now._

_**.**_

Strong noble men escorted me to the Scotland Yard. Familiar faces gaped at me as we crossed the corridors in a solemn quiet procession, intent on our goal. The witnesses room, where the interviews must be held. I must identity photographs of the men who did this to me, I must help bring accusations to all three of them.

Faithful to the olden days, we came in through the access pathway that is only permitted to the insiders. That was Greg's gentle insistence, assuring me I'm never a stranger among the good men at the Yard.

We crossed the familiar open room with frail dividing walls, too full of desks and ongoing cases, through countless faces of officers who I met in the call of duty by Sherlock's side. Some recognise me in shock, the obvious marks of what I have endured exposed in my face and hands, in the slight brokenness of my stance, as bones and ligaments heal in their own time. Others stop their business and respectfully sustain my gaze as I walk all across the room. _At ease_, I could have told them, as a reflexion of my army days.

_Not as bad as I thought it would be._

"Who's he, the one following the boss?" a female voice whispers loudly as we finally stand waiting, facing the lift's doors. I square my jaw and prepare to endure the inevitable scrutiny. It comes audible, at last, as was inevitable. Perhaps it's best I hear it now, instead of anxiously replaying possible conversations in my mind.

"That's Sherlock Holmes, don't you know him?" another female voice answers, this one more familiar. Some time has elapsed since I used to roam these corridors with Greg and Sherlock. New faces have arrived. I guess I should be glad Sherlock is the centre of attention wherever he goes.

"Not him, the other one!" the first woman insists.

"Oh." Now they are surely both staring at me. _Where's this lift already? Can I will it to come any faster?_

Sherlock is about to turn around and face them. I'm so mortified I grab my friend by the coat sleeve to stop it. Better pretend it doesn't affect me. It will make it stop faster. Sherlock halts because I'm practically begging him to, via his coat sleeve. But he's the one staring at me now. Only with Sherlock it's never uncomfortable. Weird, yes, often, but never in an uncomfortable way.

"Who is he? Why is his face scarred?"

"Shush!"

"It's not like he doesn't know it, why are you defending the freak's new friend, Sally?"

"He's an old friend, Thompson. The one man Sherlock Holmes won't leave behind."

The lift doors open and just before I enter I glance over my left shoulder at sergeant Sally Donovan and nod. She appears caught off-guard and uncomfortable. I feel grateful for her genuine reaction. We might not always have met eye to eye regarding Sherlock and the cases, but I appreciate the way she's handled this. Like she would have to a fellow Yarder. Respectful, defensive even, of both Sherlock and I.

Sherlock enters last, positioning himself closely, as my faithful bodyguard. I appreciate the thought, but words are powerful weapons that sink deep as sharp thin blades, and I can't be protected from all of them, can't expect to be mollycoddled whenever in the public eye.

One thing this conversation I didn't partake in has made clear; _I'm the new freak in the Yard._

I knew it was bad on Sherlock when Sally called him "freak", but I may have not understood the full extent of the blow at the time. I didn't often defend Sherlock verbally, loudly, because I knew he could handle it, he's got a tough skin. Sure I'd give away death stares like sweets to kids, and often that held the most vicious tongs from wagging. Most of all, I allowed Sherlock to handle it the way he chose to, and now the tables are reversed, so has he. Assuring me he knows I'm strong enough.

'I'm sorry you had to hear that, John', Greg sighs as soon as the lift doors close and we're warranted some modicum of privacy. 'I'll have a word with Thompson about it', he adds darkly. I look inquiringly back at Greg. Maybe I could have asked him directly but I won't trust my voice just now. 'New intern, the commissioner wanted to see if she fitted in with Homicide.'

Sherlock voices my resentment: 'Better not let her loose with the witnesses, Lestrade.'

Greg seems to agree, because he vouches: 'She's not our division, John.'

I nod gently, and look away, towards the electronic panel with the consecutive numbers flashing by. I'm barely watching it. My sight is unfocused enough that I can watch the reflex over the glossy surface. Two good friends stand guard, towering me. They don't seem troubled by their assignments. In fact, their protective stance seems to come out naturally.

_They just can't be by my side indefinitely. I'll soon have to face all this on my own._

.

Sherlock is already at the dimly lit room with the one-way glass when I arrive at the claustrophobic space to do the identifications out of a set of photographs. I'm also expected to recount the events of those long hours at the warehouse, in as much explicit detail as I can.

'Are you ready to do this, John?' Greg asks in all seriousness, behind me.

I nod, throat going dry all of a sudden.

'Do we keep Sherlock in the room? Will that help?'

I hesitate. Greg waits only a few seconds before directing me to the witness chair. In front of me a camera rolling on a tripod, and beyond it a large one way mirror that I know can conceal observers.

_I've been there myself enough times to know how it works._

I nod at last, granting Sherlock the right (my plea?) to stay. _This is it. I need this to be over with, Greg._

The seat is far less comfortable than I'd have assumed it to be. Then again this can never be comfortable.

'What happened, John?' I face away from Lestrade as I hear his question. This is worse than therapy. Ella used to ask me that all the time. Never really knew how to answer her cohesively. This time is no easier... I wonder if I could write a blog and then Greg would read that later, and that way I wouldn't have to hear my own voice falter while I describe it, and most of all I wouldn't have to see his honest reactions to my story. At least Ella was good at being impassible. Greg volunteered to do this job so I wouldn't have to open up to a stranger about my private horrors, but– It's not easy with Greg either. He's too much of a nice person. He cares. He remembers. What I tell him now he'll hold onto forever. It'll be there whenever he sees me. It'll hold him back from giving similar cases to Sherlock. _Great, now I'm holding Sherlock back in yet another way._ Sherlock loves his murders and mustn't have thought that helping me would keep him from–

'Take your time, John. There's no hurry.'

Greg's kindness rescues me from my own spiral of confusion. I focus again on his greyish short hair, on the wrinkles of his forehead. Not on his eyes or his mouth, no, they are too expressive and–

'What if I can't remember?' I voice at last, in a pathetic effort to withdraw.

'John, we talked about parts of this before. You know letting this out of your chest will make you feel better.' He actually raises his brow in an incentive expression. _Go on, do this, get this over with_, he seems to promote. 'I only need the facts, John, as you recall them. I'll ask small questions if something is unclear. Is that okay?'

I breathe deeply and accept it at last. _I'm a soldier, I'll soldier on._

'I was captured by three men, DI Lestrade. I had ample opportunity to learn their features and I'd recognise them easily if I saw them again.'

'So, no masks? No disguises?' I can see he's containing his questions for me, at least for now.

'I wasn't supposed to come out of there alive.'

'John, you...' He gulps drily and refocus. 'Can you answer the question for the record?'

'No disguises. No masks. I saw them clearly.'

'You'll need to speak up, John', Greg tells me apologetically. My voice is failing me already. 'Do you want some tea, perhaps?' Greg gets up without waiting for my answer, pressuring me to take that comforting drink. I nod, dispassionately. He takes his cue and exits momentarily the room, leaving me on the uncomfortable chair, with Sherlock sat close by.

I look at my best friend. He's chewing bubble gum and trying his best to look leisurely bored. Seeing right through him, I apologize the best I can: 'Not doing a great job, am I? It's a simple report of events and people I saw firsthand, but... Somehow it's not the same thing as writing about our cases.'

Sherlock hums without inflexion then gets up and moves towards the camera. His back turned to me as if giving me time to settle my breathing, he fiddles with its buttons, till the red light on top shuts down with no remorse. I feel relief flooding me at once. From that same position, turning to face me again, Sherlock is opposing me on the other side of the long table as he asks me: 'The third man, what did he do to you, John?'

I smirk sadly. 'Not asking about the first two? Then again, Sherlock, you don't need to ask. You have deduced it all.'

He nods, not even realising it's a compliment. I have a momentary feeling that it's also a curse on Sherlock at times like these.

'The third man was the most vicious one', my voice cracks, but over all it's getting stronger.

'I know', he laments gently, slipping off his impartially momentarily.

Slowly I retell my tale, out loud for the first time, as I wait for my tea.

I hardly notice quite some time goes by. Dispassionately Sherlock asks me questions from his awkward position, beside the camera, out in the interrogation room's darkest corner. I go through the main points with as much accuracy and brevity as I can. From the back of my mind I wonder if I don't have an unfair advantage next to other witnesses. Sherlock is just about preparing me for the real deal. My voice cracks everytime I think I'll need to do this I front of Greg, taped for posterity. But right now, with Sherlock – who knows it all already by his own methods of deduction – it doesn't feel quite so violent to recount this. So we go through it all, as time stretches by. The kidnap, the secret, the brutal tactics. I keep secret of only one thing, in an attempt to keep my privacy, my dignity; how at times I can still feel the third man under my very own skin and I need to tell myself over and over again he's not really around anymore.

It's as my emotional recount to Sherlock comes to an end that Greg Lestrade returns. Unfair as it may be, my first thought is on the unbearable pain of having to repeat it all again.

Greg hands me a warm cup of fragrant tea and asks towards Sherlock: 'Got it all on tape?'

A cold wave of nausea hits me from head to toes. The one-way window, and the tape! _Bet Sherlock didn't turn it off at all! _The missing chewing gum covering the little red light... Sherlock was the one questioning me – for real, it turns out – while Greg listened on the other side of the glass.

'Sorry, mate', Greg tells me and he actually looks uncomfortable as he takes in my shocked, drained expression. 'Sherlock was to tell you he had taken over, but he improvised.' The two men who have in different ways both decided to make their life works as detectives cross gazes. 'I didn't want to interrupt, John, you two were doing great. I know how hard this must be on you, John, and I'm sorry for all I heard you–'

He's been listening without my consent. Him and a bunch of other Yard officers, most probably. Lurking in the shadows beyond the one-way mirror.

_'Shut up!'_ I tell him briskly, all my voice power restored, clawing at the chair's armrests. 'Please', I add more gently, controlling myself. 'I don't care, keep the tape, do what you will with it, just let me go home now.'

Greg hesitates only a second. 'Yeah, sure, John. I'll drive you both to Baker Street at once.'

Sherlock nods in thankful agreement for the both of us.

_**.**_


	139. Chapter 139

_A/N: Never meant for this storyline to be this long. It perplexes me. __**Part 9**__ of my upset-series. Only a more lighthearted epilogue after this._

_By the way, true story – I'm not much of a writer. They say Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. These stories are what happens when I'm busy unwinding. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

The car ride was incredibly awkward. I kept quiet, Sherlock tried his hand at small talk but it's not really his best learnt social skill and, at the wheel, Greg kept shooting undisguised glances at Sherlock in complicity over me. Or maybe Greg's glances were disguised, filtered by some sort of brotherly decency. I can recognise that I'm hyper-vigilant, paranoid even. I know my two close friends chose to breach my confidence with the best intentions in mind, in order to spare me, because they felt for me. It's just one too many blows on the privacy of a man who has been devastated and left with none.

_It feels like I was turn apart all over again, in a mockery show of my deep nightmare._

_Greg was wrong; it didn't make it all any better._

We're arriving at the familiar green door with the golden knocker and Sherlock is on about how tomatoes are not really vegetables but actually fruits, like it's preposterous not to put them in fruit salads according to the biologists, or something like that. I hardly pay attention. My mind has possibly flat-lined after the adrenaline rush at the witnesses interrogation room. Before I know it, I'm already asking Sherlock:

'Will you leave me on my own for a few hours?' My tone of voice is eerily quiet, detached from my reality. I can see alarm bells ringing in their unguarded expressions.

'John, I don't think...' Sherlock starts, hesitantly. I can see his bottom lip quivering as he struggles to find the words, the proper respectful words, the ones that won't rub on my wounds, won't send me off the deep end.

'Sherlock, I'm tired, I need to rest.'

'I can play the violin, then. You always sleep better when I play the violin', he negotiates.

I shake my head. 'I really just want to be alone, Sherlock. I have too many thoughts running through my mind. I think I'll take a sleeping aid and go lay down.'

Greg calls on Sherlock's good sense by placing a placating hand on his forearm. 'The man's exhausted', Greg takes my side, 'you should let him rest'.

I sigh. 'You can watch me sleep through your live feed cams. I know you have them linked to your phone. So in a way I'm never really alone. You can check in on me whenever you like.'

Sherlock nods, although regretful, in the end. He watches me open the police car door and step outside in drained, shuffled footsteps. _I can tell he wanted to come in with me._ He's so used to our synergy that he finds himself suddenly at a loss, without me.

_**.**_

I shrugged off my jumper and shoes right at 221B's door. Nothing, however, could make me feel comfortable at this time. I think about having some alcoholic drink, and how that always works for Harry (according to Harry herself, but not her therapist), yet I haven't the spark left in me to go fetch me one. I just take a careful seat on my armchair, facing Sherlock's empty one, and let the numbness I feel inside – hollow, empty, _alluring_ – fill me up.

I don't blame Sherlock or Greg. I couldn't care less. They got their case in the end. Perhaps it's best that way for all involved. All those who matter, anyway.

Did Sherlock want to spare me or did he really think I couldn't do it? Or has all this been for the case?

_Because I'd have done it in the end, of that I'm sure._

I wouldn't have been less than all those brave people who were tangled up in those cases Sherlock and I solved.

My thoughts are rudely interrupted by furtive steps on 221's stairs. _Seriously, Sherlock! What needs a man say to get some privacy once in a while? We're not conjoined twins, you know?_

I turn to face the door and angrily verbally bash out my friend when the sight of the man at the door freezes me.

_Not Sherlock._

My stomach seizes on me and it takes all my mighty efforts not crumple into two.

_The third man._

_He's come for me._

_**.**_

I sent Sherlock away, demanding he'd give me the privacy I needed. This is the true materialisation of the fears that kept Sherlock on a close watch over me at all times, I realise, not a sense that I may break if left to my own devices. Sherlock knows me too well. My best friend knows I'm strong and with time I'll make a full comeback. So sure I am that Sherlock sees in me the potential to survive this terrifying trap that I know it means I can fight it – fight for my life, fight till help comes – and help will come, because I'm not alone, I've got friends; and I'll hold out for as long as I need, because not now nor at the past have I ever been only John Watson, the victim. I'm a fighter and I carry in me the drive of all those who'll never back down from coming to my aid and giving me a hand. It's for all of us I'm fighting.

This is a replay from the warehouse. This sadistic man is counting on fear to place me back at the vulnerable position that his two accomplices have secured the last time. No. I know now I can endure all that, and I'll still come out on the other side, battered but whole.

And, of course, I now have the tactical advantage to a trained soldier of a familiar battlefield.

'Hello. I've been looking for you.' It's my voice and not his that claims the words we could both have pronounced. It comes out strong and clear, even at the sight of the gun.

_This is who I am, a fighter._

_**.**_

'Is this seriously how you want it to be?' I mock coldly the gun at the third man's hand. I'm in this too deep already, I may as well dive in head first.

'Nah. This is just so I can get the ropes nice and tight around you. Then we can have our fun. I know you have been waiting for this. Tell me, do you think about me every day?'

The shameful answer is, _of course, yes._ I fall into the emotional trap of remembering the trauma every day.

'I do too', he reads my silence, as he starts to circle me. My hairs are on end, my breathing is laboured. 'How about those ropes, then?'

A shiver runs down my back, unpermitted but honest. In his face, a wicked horrifying smile develops. 'Knew you liked it. You see, I liked it too.'

I could fold myself in two and retch right now. I'm working with all my willpower just to keep me afloat. This is too much, this is what I need to run away from. But I can't. If I let my guard down _it'll happen again._ And I can't take anymore.

_I need to hold on till Sherlock comes._ My hope never falters in my friend. He'll always come in my hour of need, I just know it.

We've been slowly circling around as the man tries to approach me. His appearance could be cut out from one of my nightmares. He's just as I remember him. Tall, bulky, rough around the edges, thick uneducated accent. It's not the old looking scar on his jaw that's most striking to me – and I try not to draw comparisons to my own wounds, I won't have him taint my mind with his presence any further – it's the ugly soulless joy he's taking from seeing me squirm. He's a sadist monster that lives with the sole purpose of inflicting pain to gain pleasure and feel alive. And right now I'm unwillingly playing into his game, because I can see he's enjoying the fear I cannot fully hide inside me.

_Hurry up, Sherlock._

Slowly we've been moving and now my calf hits my armchair. Somehow, in my desperate attempt to create distance from the monster, I've further separated myself from the two doors of the flat. I'm being strategically placed where he wants me. This is not good.

_Where are you, Sherlock?_

'Looking out of the window, are we? No one there, ya know? The old woman from downstairs is not around, I checked.'

It burns deep inside me, the anger that this monster has been down to see Mrs Hudson's flat, to make sure we'd have our privacy upstairs. She's been taken to safety a long, long time ago, courtesy of the Holmes brothers.

'Sure ain't as cosy as the warehouse, but it'll do. We are all alone, so you can scream all your like. I really like to hear you scream, John.'

_Sherlock..._

'I waited for your friends to leave you alone, so I could come in. Honest, I thought it would be harder. They just drove off, nay? You know what, I should thank them after I'm done with you. That old gent and the posh bloke. They might like it too.'

_No, you don't get to threaten Mrs H. You don't get to threaten my best mates._

'They got you here for me. They didn't even cone up to see if you were okay here. Not much of friends, are they? Giving you up to me?'

_Best friends in the world._ They gave me the privacy I asked for. They tricked me into giving a statement to jail this man, the most painless way. Sure it hurt me. It was such a Sherlock-thing to do, I don't know how I didn't see it coming. For all the right reasons, the wrong way about it.

I've let my anger blind me, but now I'm not angry anymore. It's not a merciful forgiveness, hoping Sherlock will come back. I really mean it. I know they wanted what was best for me, I know that now.

_I'm quite sure no one abandoned me, not at all._

He pulls the trigger and at the same time I see the blinding flash of light erupting around the deflagrating chamber of the gun, I'm already calculating trajectories. As I'm falling on the ground on my knees I realise that his aim was way off. The bullet grazed my left leg, high up. Some muscle damage and obvious blood loss, but not life threatening yet.

I sprawl my hand over the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Not much more I can do just yet, under the close scrutiny of the gun.

'Time for the ropes, pal.'

Finally i answer him, defiantly. 'I don't think so. You said you didn't want to kill me yet.'

My voice is steady and deep as it crosses the room. It won't falter, not now, on this important message. All the fibres in my body concentrate in keeping me afloat. Instead of numb, I'm as focused as I've ever been.

The added input of the familiar background helps push new strengths out of me. _This is home._

He comes closer, towering over me and looking down. 'Like you better down there. More fitting, innit?'

_No, it's all strategy._

In an impulsive move I grab onto the hot steel of the gun's barrel, diverting its aim with both my hands. Plains blasts at my stomach as he kicks me to make me let go of his gun. I just hold on tighter, my life in the balance of a gun, once again. Another swinging kick and my hands start losing their grip altogether. A third kick sends me rolling on the carpet floor towards the hard edges of the fireplace.

Immediately he grabs the rope and leans over to the stunned soldier on the floor. I clasp my hand as I tense up all over my body, in pain, raw fear, and anger. As he's coming close, too close, I fling a handful of ashes from the fireplace at him. He retreats at once, trying to gather his senses. My turn to kick him, off me. He stumbles backwards, but manages to grab onto the leg I outstretched, circling my sore ankle with claw-like fingers. The first uncontrolled noise escapes my throat and he smiles.

Suddenly there's loud footsteps running up the stairs. _Sherlock and Greg are coming back!_

The third man heard it too. In a strong grip he grabs the closest armchair and flips it over me. I hastily shelter myself as best as I can with my arms, my whole world is abruptly swamped in darkness and mayhem.

_'John!'_

New wrestling noises alert me to Sherlock and Greg's entrance. They are immediately entranced in a fight with this larger than average goon on steroids. _Not if I can help it._ This monster has hurt enough of the people I care about through what he's done to me. I grasp the closest object I can lay my hands on, an ash poker, and sneak out from under the protection of the overturned chair, immediately flinging my makeshift weapon off my hand.

It hits him right in the target.

The third man wobbles, ash poker's point through the chest, grabbing at it, then he immobilises and falls like timber in a forest.

Death is never a pretty thing. Nor will I ever take satisfaction over it.

But I will be grateful that I'm safe, and so are my friends.

I stumble, my left leg buckling under my weight.

'John!' Greg calls me, stunned, Sherlock has already pushed him aside to come to me and help me keep standing.

Facing my best friend in the eye, I tell him, in a broken exhausted voice that seems to be all I have left in me: 'Knew you'd come, Sherlock.'

He better grabs on to me as I further stumble, starting to lose my consciousness.

Greg's been disarming the third man and making sure he's dead. The DI looks over his shoulder to md and claims: 'Great shot, John. He's not coming back anymore and it's undoubtedly self-defence. He came here to finish you off. I guess you'll be able to sleep better at night now.'

Exhausted and hardly holding myself up in Sherlock's strong protective arms, I just allow a flicker of a relieved smile in response.

_**.**_


	140. Chapter 140

_A/N: This is sort of an epilogue to a very long plotline. __**Last one**__ of the upset-series._

_Actually I wasn't sure about this... I'll go out of my way to call Mummy Holmes, Regina. Someone brilliantly came up with that name before me, I'm afraid. Seems fitting she'd have an outstanding name, given that she called her kids Sherlock and Mycroft (and Sherrinford?). And Mummy knows best, by the way. That's what she tells us. Sherlock's dad just smiles and let's her have it her way._

_I won't mention the cottage or the Christmas party because I haven't inserted Mary on this story and I'm not about to sellotape her in now. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'It's not a magical pass. It's not all okay now. It doesn't work like that', I comment quietly as both Sherlock and I stand at the back of an open ambulance, sat on the ledge, and I've just had my leg wound dressed. As for the shock blanket – of a bright shade of orange one could use to locate me if I'd get lost on a sandstorm – I've only accepted it when it when Sherlock agreed to share it with me. The orange fabric is stretched, spread out over both our backs, and it's both hardly enough and surprisingly comforting.

'I know', Sherlock says the words and they mingle with a low humming throaty noise.

Did I just tell my generous friend that his job by my side is not done? Or am I asking for advance forgiveness next time I'm plagued by nightmares, or Greg refuses to hand us a case because it'll land too close to home for me?

'But it helps', I add, more positive. 'A lot.'

'I should hope so', Sherlock inserts, again with not much words. He instinctively seems to know that no matter how shock-blanketed we both are, this is my time to vent.

'Maybe I'm a bad person because it helps in ways it shouldn't...' I say, hiding my face behind my shaky hand for a second. Sherlock seems to understand. No matter my proven strength, it's so much more of a relief to know that the third man won't be coming back. Sure there will be more challenges, other dangers and more vicious people, but right now, with Sherlock shoulder to shoulder with me, I feel like I can face this.

'Only you, John, would worry if self-defence makes you a bad person. Especially considering you've been to war and this isn't your first kill.'

'Yeah... Well, I was justified at war.'

'So were you now, you know that.'

'Did I hurry up the end result so I wouldn't have to go to court, though?'

I can feel Sherlock's surprise an inch away from me, and I still myself absorbing its energy ripples as I anxiously wait for my verdict.

'You were about to pass out from shock and blood loss, John...'

'Oh, please, it's just a nasty scratch.'

'And you decided that your final act wasn't to be one of self-protection, so understandable and expected given the circumstances, but of protecting your friends first.' He frowns, then scurries slightly closer, till our legs are just about touching. 'I've observed physical proximity settles your nerves, John, so allow me. It's not... _unpleasant_. John, I believe you remained faithful and loyal at a time where no one could fault you to have minded only self-protection. Both Lestrade and I came in to 221B in sheer desperation to extract you from your assailant, and you're thinking less of us if you believe we weren't desperate to get to you, to keep you safe. What you did in the end, both Lestrade and I would have done for you. Possibly with more paperwork for Lestrade, and you know how much he hates the paperwork we leave him with. John, it was the right call, and we'd have done it for you if it had been up to us.'

Finally I realise: 'You came in without guns.'

Sherlock smirks. 'My faithful blogger didn't equip me with one and Greg, seeing that he was counting on spending the day interviewing you, didn't bring along his service weapon either.'

'You both stormed in, despite the danger. The man had a gun.' Sherlock just nods, allowing me to rationalise the recent events still swirling in my mind.

'We'd have done it again', Sherlock comments, eyes set on DI Lestrade at a distance, as if to include him.

I follow my friend's gaze towards Lestrade. 'He's about to have a bucket load of paperwork.'

Sherlock nods slowly, then more energetic he claims: 'He won't mind, you know?'

'Everybody minds paperwork, Sherlock', I scold my friend. He just shrugs, it's unimportant in his world, and I realise he's right. Close proximity does comfort me at times like these. I lean over towards Sherlock strong frame and let my tired eyes shut for a second. I'm so glad to have Sherlock's support.

**.**

'Sherlock, why are we here?' I protest, half-heartedly. The truth is my friend has spiked my curiosity again. Sherlock insisted suddenly that we'd leave the house mid-afternoon, no explanations involved. We only sticked around long enough to assure the work of the Scotland Yard officers was brief and to the point, and soon they swarmed off, leaving a mess in their wake.

221B is the home I hardly exit these days, and mid-afternoon Sherlock insisted we'd leave it suddenly, no explanations involved.

For the life of me, I can't begin to explain why I accepted the invite so uncharacteristically fast.

Now we're starting at the closed front door of a nice stately house, quite removed from London's buzzing centre.

'Mummy insisted', Sherlock mutters, as he tries to appear distant. It comes across as a kid upset to have to play by the rules.

'_Mummy_? Wait, your mummy?' I frown.

'And Baker Street's wooden floors are being cleaned to remove the blood stains. And so is the Persian rug. Next time, John, will you mind the rug?' he asks in faked seriousness. _Or at least I think it's faked._ 'I don't go around shooting people over your Union Jack pillow, do I?'

'It's not mine. I mean, I usually use it, but the pillow's been there since day one and– Sherlock, don't roll your eyes at me! Anyway, why would you care about the bloody stains? You never care about cleaning!'

'It'll frighten away the clients.'

_He's fibbing._ I smirk. 'Or attract a new clientele altogether.' I decide to play along, in his dramatics game. 'Vampires, for instance.'

He rolls his eyes again, putting more feel into it this time. 'Not another underground culture, John! What case can you possibly have spotted in my inbox that you wish to influence me to take?'

Before I can actually answer him, the front door opens, startling me. I turn to face it and recognise Sherlock's easy smile father.

'Sherlock, John, come in! It's cold out there. Did you come over all this way to visit us? It's raining an awful lot...'

It never ceases to surprise me how kind and thoughtful Sherlock's dad is, even if under the customary Holmes' guise of social politeness. He hasn't seen me in a few months, and a lot has gone by, which I'm sure he can tell just from a glance. Even these painful recent events have left stark visible marks on me – not to mention the cane that accompanies my every step today – and yet he acts like he can tell nothing much on my appearance. _I'm thankful for his discretion._

'Sorry to drop in like this, unannounced', I fight my words. 'Sherlock has brought us...'

I lose my train of thought as I see Sherlock's mother coming in to greet us with an honest embracing smile on her face.

'Mrs Holmes', I nod stiffly. She always gives me the creeps, her eyes so like Sherlock's and her attitude larger than the room. It only mellows when she addresses Sherlock, I've noticed, when she becomes subdued and tender in an unexpected way.

'Regina, call me Regina, John', she smiles like a feral cat about to pounce over a prey, and yet, somehow, her smile is warm and passionate. As if she's defending me in her own way. I vaguely recall Sherlock mentioning a French grandmother, with an artistic background, and I realise there us this same artistic passion and thrill in both Regina and Sherlock's eyes.

Almost as if she's been waiting for my thoughts to quieten and settle – Sherlock assures me I'm much too transparent – she now carries on, in that same fiery energy:

'You two are staying for dinner, that's settled. But will you stay for the night? Sherlock, dear, it's been a while.' She pressures him as she takes a caring hand to cup her son's cheek. He steps away at once, looking for the whole world to see as if he's embarrassed.

There's also this down to earth quality to Regina Holmes that makes her so endearing as well.

I turn to face my friend, hardly concealing my amusement. As I expected, he's opted to look all pained but accepting, like a good son. I stifle an unmerciful giggle in the nick of time, but, of course, these are the Holmes mother and son, so they both deduce it (or whatever they do) and stop, looking at me for answers.

'Oh. That'd be lovely. I mean, if Sherlock...' I mumble.

Regina sends a reproachful glance at Sherlock as if I'm much too _readable_ and jumps on the occasion: 'Lovely indeed. I shall get it all ready. It's always lovely when Sherlock brings his friends over.'

_Friends?_ I don't know what sort of facial expression of doubt I'm making, but if it's anywhere near Sherlock's, Regina will have to address it. Which she does:

'Well, you know... _friends_. Sherlock was such a sensitive boy, growing up. There were always wounded birds, and the likes of that...'

Sherlock releases his tense expression for a second. 'I tried to mend many broken wings. There was a nasty cuckoo outside my window at a time, John.'

'And he'd autopsy them if he couldn't heal them', his mother adds, timely.

'Fascinating creatures', Sherlock concurs. 'I'm afraid I was never very good as a doctor, John. However I gained a deeper knowledge of anatomy, behavioral dynamics and other sciences.'

'He'd come over in a run, eager to tell me all about it', his mother agrees.

I'm blinking. 'So Sherlock's friends...'

'Always stayed for dinner', she tells me excitedly, as she takes hold of my hand, pats it gently, and pushes me along with her. 'Now for supper, I've got a very nice meal ready. I'll need your help making sure Sherlock eats it, I'm just his mother and he won't listen to me. Have you seen how skinny my boy is? Not Mycroft, I don't mean him. Mycroft is actually on a diet again. Not even Sherrinford's as a picky eater as Sherlock's always been.'

'Sherrinford?' I repeat, confused.

'Oh, never mind that. You're the guest, John, you must tell me all about you. We never have enough guests around here. Just me and Sherlock's father, and the old man is as plain boring as the day I married him. Oh, Frank, remind me again why I married you?'

From across the room – he must have moved silently – Sherlock's dad answers patiently: 'Because you love me, dear.'

'That's right', she agrees, imposing as always. 'Knew there was a reason, dear.'

I glance an SOS back at Sherlock, but he's already tapping away at his phone, completely oblivious to his mother's antics.

'Actually, Regina', I start at an attempt at autonomy.

'That's right, you've got my name right at last, John. Isn't that much better?'

_**.**_

In Regina's whirlwind energy I've been hastily shown to a guest bedroom with a comfy bed and posh decor. It almost looks like a museum room, but necessarily in a bad way. It's inviting and welcoming. It's also so _not-me_.

Casually, as if hiding my suspicions, I came closer to test the mattress softness by pressing down my hand on it.

I'm taken by surprise as Sherlock's sardonic voice cuts the silence from behind me: 'She's thrilled, you know, that I brought along a friend. She won't try to kill you, John. You can safely assume the food is not poisoned, the bed is ordinary and all that. It's not like she's working in the Secret Services.'

'No, of course not', I agree absent-mindedly. Though Mycroft Holmes works. _Or commands. Or owns. Not sure which_.

_Did Sherlock's Nummy–_

_Great, now I'm calling her Mummy..._

Sherlock smirks and leans off from the wallpaper. 'You'll find appropriate dinner attire in the wardrobe.'

I frown, puzzled. 'We're eating. There's no need for fancy outfits.'

'Have it your way', he shrugs as I open the wardrobe's doors all the same.

'Wait a minute, how does your mother know my sizes?' I call out, puzzled, but Sherlock has already vanished.

_Oh, crap._ I'm centrepiece in a Holmesian plot, aren't I?

_**.**_

I've sat on the floor, legs crossed, gazing intently at the soft fabric in my hands when I hear Sherlock returning quite some time after. He stands by the door and voices: 'You don't have to wear a tie if you don't want to, John.'

I look over my shoulder and face Sherlock slowly, solemnly. He thinks I'm holding some ceremonial outfit in awe. Honestly, Sherlock, I've been to fancy dinners before. I know what ties – expensive ties – look like. This is not it.

I raise the soft fabric of a toy up for him to see. Sherlock falls quiet at the first sight of the small battered rabbit toy.

'I think she left it behind', I say at last. The gurl, _aka_ The Secret, the one I vowed to protect no matter the cost.

Sherlock clears his throat to gain time and composure before he steps inside the room and comes closer. Gently he takes the bunny off my hands.

'Does it glow in the dark?' he attempts at humour.

I won't fall for it, waiting. He's turning and rolling the toy around in his hands till he comes to a few scribbled letters on the rabbit's long ear, half-hidden within the fabric. "Thankx", it says simply.

'She needs spelling lessons', Sherlock remarks when he finds the message.

'Sherlock...' I warn.

He hands me back the rabbit. 'It's a beautiful gesture, I've been assured on multiple occasions, but thanking you doesn't change what happened.'

'No, it doesn't', I agree.

'Thus it shouldn't make it better. This rabbit.'

I shrug. _And yet it does._ This is the tangible proof that I've helped someone, that I gave up so much, but it counted in the end.

'How did she manage to hide this before the Scotland Yard came to take her from here to a safe house?'

'This was a safe house for her, John. Mycroft's got top surveillance on our parents, obviously. The threats that befall on both of us can so easily extend to them.'

'She left her bunny behind.'

'The bunny had a mission, I guess. I'd say it's a happy bunny, having done it's job now that you've found it.'

I nod, slowly. Somewhere there is a safe girl who was once frightened, but parted nevertheless with a beloved toy to give me a tangible _Thank you_.

'Do you think there is a space for it in Baker Street?' I look over at my friend, who's taken a seat at the bedside.

'I'm sure there is, John', he assures me in a rich voice. 'There will always be a space in Baker Street for all that pertains John Watson.'

_**.**_


	141. Chapter 141

_A/N: It's often when I'm waiting that a plot forms in my mind, spontaneously. This one came on board an airplane. Partially written on Ukrainian's air space. (Long flight.)_

_More to come. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** First part .**_

GPs needs to keep themselves informed and updated. Even though there's a fairly stable list of possible injuries to affect a given population at a time, treatment and prescriptions are referred according to our best knowledge of that illness at the time. So we end up having lots of hours in training for the detection, prevention and treatment of illnesses and even other health threats such as trauma and chronic conditions.

I've always liked trainings. Despite the general lack of excitement they provide – the doctor_ish_ appeal of a rare form of Spongiform Encephalopathy aside, that my friend Sherlock Holmes would share with me – I enjoy the fact that I'm learning. It helps me be good at what I do. _It helps me be the best._ Needless to say it helps bring out the competitiveness in me.

Sometimes the training is a fully practical affair. I've spent the last five consecutive days working within the Trauma unit at one of North Yorkshire's A&amp;E.

It's been a long week.

Dozens of cases flew past my hands, split-second decisions made as if they were casual, but instead so much more the reasonable pondered result of years of experience, nevertheless faithfully wrapped in humble hope of the best outcome. Keeping steady under the strong steady inflow of injured patients. Some of them just kids; I've been told kids accident numbers always rise in the school holidays. As I assess them, I can't ignore the invisible spectre of the family, frazzled and fighting to hold themselves together in the waiting room.

I did my best, high on the adrenaline flowing in my body, but I don't even care that a small part of me likes and is proud of my work under these circumstances. I did a mad rush dance for life with the nurses and junior doctors, barking orders, checking stats, studying x-rays. My run usually ended at the operating theatre doors, where I'd be stopped abruptly and must let go of the vulnerable patients into the trained hands of the surgeons. Handing over the patient is in a way to show reverence to the ones who have been properly trained at the job of mending, stitching, putting people back together.

Trained to do what I learnt first hand, what I've inevitably done more often than not in a dangerous foreign land under attack. When there were only a few of us in a medic tent on enemy ground to treat an influx of wounded soldiers after some landmine explosion, insurgents attack or when our defenses got breached. Sometimes, our defences got breached while I was hands deep on a patient, so it was good policy to keep a gun by the surgical instruments tray.

That was a different lifetime.

None of these golf-playing, fancy horse races spectator, Sunday crossword puzzle solver at the breakfast table, premium surgeons knows what that's like.

'Two transverse fractures to the cubical, doctor Chandler', I gasped once, breathless over the body of a small unconscious boy.

'Okay, doctor Watson. You can go now', he dismissed me without even looking my way, looking bored as he checked his ambience music, filling the operating theatre. _I had quite different in my time._

'His name is Ross and he's six years old', I made sure Chandler knew he needed to pay attention to this boy, fight for him, and dismiss golf and Sunday's crosswords from his mind.

'Yes, doctor Watson', he maintained, tense, _telling me to leave_.

'He was trying to climb on top of the porches' roof, he's an adventurous boy.'

'If you ask me, he's daft, if he went on a roof. Now, doctor Watson, will – you – leave?' he snapped at last.

Why wouldn't anyone in the room just hear me out? Not out to get attention out of the Alfa dogs, it's just _that_ important! 'You need to reset the bone alignment–'

_'Doctor Watson!'_

I left, reluctantly. A status well illustrated by a good eye roll.

Then I wen to the boy's family. I told them Ross was in good hands with doctor Chandler. I left out the whole cretin personality. No matter the jerk he was, he was a good surgeon for the job.

Soon, I was being called back in, to other patients and other stories. Not long till I was soaking in all of them. Some people say doctors shouldn't care. But caring for the patient's has only made sense for me. What else was I supposed to care about? At the end of every shift there was a bare hotel room and another heavy sleep, restless night.

Ross came out of the surgery just fine. His parents send me a Thank you card. They wrote in it that Ross has woken up to state that he had left his new toy up on the roof and needed to go back to get it. It made burst in relieved thankful giggles.

All through this week at Trauma I've been another pair of hands in an overstretched team. Unlike other training doctors who played shy and just skimmed through the essentials, I fitted in nicely, if I can say so myself. The team looked at me and saw a man comfortable with life and death scenarios. A few of the senior members commented on my dextrous hands and steady precise moves. Some of the youngest looked at me funnily, if they thought I wasn't noticing it.

Only my friend Sherlock Holmes ever looked straight into my eyes when I'm working on a patient and saw the quiet storm within. Not that Sherlock would comment on what he sees in the depths of my eyes. Words would be shallow and futile for the silent conversations our crossed gazes held.

These things are talked about silently between the two of us. That's how our sharing has always worked.

Both in awe and distrust, that's how my work this week at the Trauma unit was acknowledged. I was thanked and praised, then offered snacks and refreshments at the nurses' station with the other trainees, as a send-off grace. By then I was more focused on returning Sherlock's missed calls then on social mingling.

Quite a few missed calls, too, that I hadn't known about. No phones allowed where I was. _Pressurised oxygen, risk of explosion, and all that._

Sherlock took my call almost immediately. I could feel, by the vibrancy in his voice and the fast pace of his words, that his case back in London was being gratifying. An Eight, maybe even a Nine. Nothing would have kept Sherlock from chasing DI Lestrade and inserting himself in the investigation of an Eight. Forcefully, if necessary.

It's Sherlock being Sherlock.

All the excitement and vibrancy speaking volumes of his giddiness as his voice poured steadily from my phone's receiving end:

"Oh, it's brilliant, John! Four murders, committed in the same exact strike of the hour, in four distinct and distant areas of London. Lestrade is at a loss, red-faced and sweaty... _Yes, you are, should I take a picture and show you your state, inspector?_ John! I wish you were here! You'd enjoy the second murder best. The killer–"

'Hang in there, Sherlock! If all the murders were committed at the same time, how come there's a _second_ murder?'

"Good old John", I hear his rich deep voice, between faked sarcasm and disguised fondness. "I didn't say the victims were all discovered at the same time, you see."

'Oh.' Body discovery's chronological order. Obvious, really.

"And they didn't all die at the same time either", Sherlock further adds.

'But you said...' I blink, confused.

"That they were murdered in the same strike of the hour, yes, by the same murderer, undoubtedly." He patiently waits for my understanding.

'Okay', I sigh. I know my friend is leading me on, and I'm easily taking the bait. He's got me curious, now.

I'd bet he's keeping Lestrade in the dark, though, just to make his Eight last longer. Sherlock often does that. Without my presence there, to act like their mediator, I'm sure it won't take long before Greg bans Sherlock off his crime scenes.

"John, the third victim was killed by use of a rare poison. Any idiot in the Yard could see that. But they can't tell me which poison it was. I'll need you to come here asap to tell me what poison it was."

'That's a job for the autopsy, Sherlock.' I deadpan.

"They take forever."

'They're accurate.'

"You're more experienced."

'Than a machine? It's a routine blood check, Sherlock. A machine will do the job.'

I can almost hear his eye roll.

"The _machine_ won't tell me _how_ he ingested the poison", Sherlock insists in our almost-banter.

_I missed this._ The A&amp;E kept me busy, but I missed Sherlock's quick responses, and the way our phrases flow with the same rhythm and still refrain from saying it all out loud. There's a complicity between us that one can't fake. He's making sure that I know that I'm being missed at the crime scene by the genius detective. His insistence that I get this message is a loyal caring gesture that he has disguised with the impatience and briskness of a call for clues and medical facts.

It's a good thing that, years on, I can read my friend's opaque speech and know the unspoken words to fill the blank spaces. Even through a phone call.

'Why don't I pop in at the crime scene when I get back to London?' I volunteer.

"Leaving tonight?" Sherlock's voice is suddenly guarded.

'Yeah. I have a car.'

"You dislike driving long distances at night."

I shrug. _Tough luck._ 'Sherlock it's December, it's been night time since I woke up till I finish late in the afternoon. If I'm to trust what I see whenever I'm outside, coming or going from this hospital, it hasn't been day for five days', I tell my friend. 'I'll be fine. Can't wait to go back to London, anyway. Have a shower, unpack, and make me a nice cuppa.'

"Crime scene", he interjects.

'What?'

"Crime scene first. I can hold off the brilliant who-done-it speech till you get here, John. I'm aware of how much you enjoy it by all the praises you never fail to give me... Oh, apparently Lestrade was within earshot. I may need to revise on my ability to hold off the solution to the case, based on the puffiness of a protruding temple vein in our friendly inspector's forehead at the present moment."

'Sherlock...' I giggle, helpless, rubbing my face with my palm. Talking to Sherlock makes me feel alive and energetic, but my body is fast approaching physical exhaustion right now.

"Hm, better double check with me before you head off to the crime scene, once you get to London. I may have had the need to confront the criminal before you arrive."

'Not without me, you don't!' I challenge immediately, in my most authoritarian voice.

My friend won't answer. Some slight commotion and hints of hushed conversations in the background alert me to his distraction from new events.

"John!" he very much shouts on the phone; vibrant, alive, whole. "There have been three new murders of the same fashion. Sorry, I've got to dash. Call me, maybe?"

'Sherlock!' I shout at once, but it's already too late. He's disconnected the call.

_He'll get himself into trouble._

_With the murderer and with Greg Lestrade alike._

I pat my pocket to check for my car keys and run out of the nurses' station, grabbing only my jacket in passing. No time to change out of the blue scrubs. _Somewhere back in London Sherlock is anxious to get himself into trouble._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	142. Chapter 142

_A/N: I enjoy writing on airplane travels. It just turns out it'd be an awfully expensive way to go about it every time I want to update._

_Continuation of the one before. Yes, I know this is not very exciting, so, just for that, I'll part this one from the ending with some sort of cliffhanger. I mean, I think it's such... -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Second part .**_

Sherlock was right. I dislike driving long distances at night. Especially this tired. My vision blurs periodically from sleep deprivation. Nevertheless, very fast the city traffic blurs into the fast lanes of the motorway.

I tried calling Sherlock again, several times now. His phone's battery has died or he's playing stubborn, because I can't get a single call through.

_I'm very worried._

Tried Greg Lestrade's phone too, but the DI is probably too busy or too upset with Sherlock to answer his blogger.

Eventually I tried Mycroft Holmes, and he dispassionately stated that he's always got a trained eye on his brother, meaning that it should suffice.

Mile upon mile of dark asphalt rolls under the hot car tyres. With sparse lamplights high up over the road repeating themselves dully and the humming reverberations from the motor, I stubbornly line the car with the white dashed lines on the pavement.

I'm very well near falling asleep on the wheel.

Exhaustion is catching up with me and I realise I should have had another cup of coffee before I got behind the wheel. It's now late in the night – or early in the morning – and I'm struggling to keep myself on the road and not go astray.

Given that I'm one of the few lonely travellers at this ungodly hour, at least my stubbornness is not putting others in harm's way.

_Harm._ That's what I'm trying to prevent here. Lord only knows what troubles has Sherlock got himself into already.

_Teletransportation needs to be invented in real life, asap._

_**.**_

With my phone running extremely low on battery as I finally reach London, I have little choice but to swing by Scotland Yard first. A bleary eyed sergeant Donnovan finally caves in and tells me: '247 King St, that's where they're at now. Doctor Watson – _John_ – they are alright. There were no calls for backup yet, and they might not even need it. Maybe you should go home and rest. Holmes isn't right to expect you to come running at his every call.'

I roll my eyes at the not unusual assumption that I'm just Sherlock Holmes' brainless servant. 'He didn't even call, Sally', I let her know as I take my leave. I mean that Sherlock never needs to ask, that he might not even want to do it for my sake, it's my choice and I own it. Ironically she just further pities me, as if I had just stated a puppy-grade loyalty to Sherlock. She'll never get it, I guess._ Friends stick by one another._

_She could use such a friend as Sherlock._

As I reach the cold night outside Scotland Yard's building, I'm already shivering. Could blame it on the low December temperatures, but I know the tiredness doesn't help. Nothing I can do about it yet, not until I get dismissed. I'm a man with a mission. So I fasten the jacket's zipper all the way up and bury my hands deep in my pockets.

_Almost there, Sherlock._

_**.**_

The crime scene is easy to find once I get to King St. No one could miss the flashing police lights reflecting on the Georgian stone façades, the electronic static noise from the emergency services' intercoms, or the white and blue striped ribbon being unrolled outside one of the houses. The front door is open on the epicentre of the blurred police frenzy so I fumble beneath the police line, and into the house. A few officers and investigators soon spot me coming in, but they know my face from other crime scenes and don't even bother to check why I'm there.

'Hi, Julie!' I wave discretely at a middle aged policewoman who always tries to buy me pints at the pub when I join the Yarders on a night out. Greg Lestrade has noticed it too and has said something about us being a cute couple (yes, he said "cute", he aimed at aggravating me). But of course Sherlock was there as Greg commented our "cuteness" and in one glance the consulting detective deduced out loud all about her, from the braces she wore on her teeth as a teenager to an undiagnosed seafood allergy, not to mention a committed relationship with another woman.

Sherlock fails to realise how much he can sound like a dissing jealous ex-boyfriend sometimes. And I'd swear that – apart from Greg Lestrade – all in the Scotland Yard would bet serious money on Sherlock and I having been a couple, before he faked his death.

_No boundaries with Sherlock Holmes._

Steadily moving through the territory, I finally come to find my friends in that foreign house, now a crime scene, in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

Centred in a crowd of Yarders, Sherlock is everyone's focus. Even as he's kneeling beside a fallen silhouette, presumably the murder victim. Close by, Lestrade stands tall, keeping control of the room as well as eagerly leaning forward slightly to analyse our friend's methods. A few forensic specialists in full body suits are left to the side, impatiently waiting permission to resume their jobs, and the pathologist on the scene (not Molly Hooper) is idly unzipping a body bag.

'Sherlock, I can't see it', Greg assures.

'You see it, of course you see it, it's just _there_! You see but you do not _observe_!' Sherlock snaps back without even looking up at the DI's puzzled expression.

'No, I–' Greg cuts off abruptly as he distractedly glances in my general direction and recognises me at once. 'Jeez, John, you look like crap!'

'Nice to see you too!' I chirp back with an overly enthusiastic smile, without even skipping a beat. The whole room's focus is still on Sherlock and the man himself is remarkably still, looking over his shoulder at me, with an intent but emotionless expression.

'John...' he murmurs, and the merest hint of a smile creeps into the side of his mouth, briefly.

'I thought', Greg starts again, 'that you were up north, John.'

I nod in agreement. 'All done now. Heard about the case. Could it be a Nine?'

'Eight at best', Sherlock snaps back, suddenly grumpy, as he looks away.

'Sorry to hear that... Anything I can do, Sherlock?'

'Add a few more bodies?'

_'What?'_

'To make it a Nine, it needs more bodies.'

_Oh. We definitely weren't in sync there, for once._

'Right... So, poison?'

'No. Ta.'

I hold a giggle and I notice my friend's shoulders minutely shaking in silent laughter as well. _Not so out of sync after all._

Coming closer to the victim on the floor, a slight disequilibrium makes me sway forwards, almost toppling over the body. I brace myself at once. Greg also perceives it on time and steadies me with an immediate hand over my shoulder.

'Easy there, mate! Are you okay?'

'Yeah, yeah, fine.' I blink to store the exhaustion on the back of my mind. 'Slight discoloration to the victim's fingernails, turning blue, indicates signs of perimortem... hm...' Words are gone now, I notice with some shock. Not nearly as shocked as I should be with my apparent aph–, aph–

'_Aphasia_', Sherlock enlightens me, deep green eyes locked on mine with intensity, never straying far.

'No, that's not what I meant to say', I frown.

'Not the victim's, yours. Your temporary _aphasia_ is clear. The victim's perimortem _anoxia_ is an entirely unrelated subject.'

'Suggests poison, though. Like you said, Sherlock.'

He nods slowly. 'Yes, and premeditation. With the poison taking no time to have a deadly effect, this must be the crime scene, of all three, where the murderer was at, physically, while he merely orchestrated the others from afar.'

'So, the other victims weren't poisoned?'

Sherlock shakes his head briefly. 'Explosive device, car crash, and plain old catapulted dagger shot from behind a hidden panel.'

'A classic', I comment on the latter. 'How do you know it's the same murderer, though? I mean, beyond the time stamp coincidence?'

Sherlock tilts his head to incite me to look down, his gaze constantly locked on mine. As I follow his unspoken instructions I find an obviously fresh tattoo symbol stamped on the victim's hand, the ink still wet and shinny.

'Oh, I _see_. Does the symbol mean anything to you, Sherlock?'

'Certainly. Without it all these murders are seemingly unrelated. One mark of vanity from the killer's part and we've got him. This last victim confirms to me who the killer really is, out of twelve possible and likely candidates... It's time to catch the criminal, Lestrade!' he announces in triumph, spinning around for an audience.

'Brilliant', I mutter reflexively.

'Isn't it?' Sherlock smirks after a second, but all the while his eyes are rounded and softened by my genuine praise.

Lestrade has been taken by surprise, I can tell, but soon he recuperates his ground and demands comfortably: 'Where to, Sherlock?'

'I'll tell you in the car', he diverges, getting up. 'I trust you've got a gun, Lestrade?' Greg nods sharply in response. 'See you later, John!'

_Oh, no, you don't!_ I react with shock and refuse to let my sulky friend brush me aside because I was away. I will not accept that Sherlock just leaves me out of this!

'I'm going too, Sherlock', I demand. 'And, before you ask, I've got a gun, too.'

Baker Street's detective hesitates only for a second – with Lestrade openly studying our interactions in the background – and finally allows magnanimously: 'Fine. If you want to.'

'Damn right I do', I remark stubbornly.

_**.**_

A murderer with a wide variety of weapons of choice in his belt is one to be taken seriously in any circumstances, but adding to that the remarkably high productivity (in his murder making ways), we're left to sort out a case of the decade in London. Sherlock's Eight - he insists in not calling this a Nine – is undoubtedly making history and this might just come to be one of those unbelievable case studies junior officers will study at the Yard.

This is Sherlock's case solving training, in a way.

Needless to say DI Greg Lestrade is treading the waters carefully. He _needs_ Sherlock Holmes, Scotland Yard's wild card, to solve this and stop this seemingly random murders. He also needs to be on top of his game when it comes to creative interpretation of the facts whilst writing the report afterwards.

With a healthy glint in his greyish eyes, Sherlock insists we'd do better not to storm in loudly in high numbers when we go to corner the killer. We end up, therefore, following Sherlock's lead, just the three of us, to a suburban flat. Greg Lestrade insists on taking the lead, as the senior officer in charge. Behind him, Sherlock mutters something about "seniority in age" to get to our friend, then glances back in complicity to me. I smile back at Sherlock with considerable delay, given that the urge to sleep is crawling back into my mind.

Suddenly a burst of adrenaline grants me wide awake, as a couple of drunken shots are fired right through the flat's front door with a heavy calibre gun, just as we were coming up. We duck to the ground at once, in a collective instinctive fluid movement. Above us, the faint smell of burnt gunpowder and wood, and beams of bright light trailing in straight lines from the three bullet holes on the door.

The killer knows we're on to him and he is unwilling to cooperate.

I grasp my gun tighter, and glance around me for Sherlock's whereabouts, fully aware that he is unarmed and I'll need to keep him covered.

'Keep down!' Greg orders in a sharp voice that tells us that he's used to being obeyed unquestioned. He kneels by the other side of the door that currently stands between us and draws his gun, cocking it.

'Got the action you wanted, Sherlock?' he remarks, reproaching the detective, before taking up his phone to call for immediate backup. They'll take time to get there, though, and this first part of the action is on us.

Sherlock seems not to pay attention to any of that.

'Can't let it escalade', he quickly deduces. 'No matter the obvious deduction that our presence here is known, we still have the upper hand with the surprise element.'

'So, we go in?' I read.

'At once', he nods.

Right on cue I get up and daringly align myself with the front door. One step back, my good shoulder first, and I attempt to break down the door.

The latch on the door gives in remarkably easily. I'd be happier with that, and would even go as far as to rub the dull pain communicated to my bad shoulder, if I wasn't already hastily ducking out of the way of more incoming bullets.

New fire power coming from behind me asserts Greg's backup, as Sherlock sneaks past us. We're one well oiled storm unit.

One brief look at the kitchen counter and a half-eaten greasy take-away meal and Sherlock knows: 'Bedroom! Hurry!'

It's Greg's turn to try to break down a door, but he can't quite pull it off. There's an obvious barricade behind it and the door won't budge under the strain. I second Greg's efforts and finally we manage together to throw it ajar.

I see Sherlock stealthily storming inside the room from behind us, eyes steady on the darkest corner ahead. Greg immediately follows suit. Something – instinct, perhaps – freezes down time for me, into a slow viscous flow of connected seconds, punctuated by my loud heartbeats. Suddenly in my over-exhausted, half-witted mind, I realise that the killer is instead hidden behind the door, wanting to escape, but Sherlock is still in his way. He raises his gun on my unsuspecting friend...

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	143. Chapter 143

_A/N: Finished writing this back on solid ground. Turns out, the flight wasn't long enough after all. –csf_

* * *

**_._**

_I see Sherlock stealthily storming inside the room from behind us, eyes steady on the darkest corner ahead. Greg immediately follows suit. Something – instinct, perhaps – attempts to freeze down time for me, slowing it into some viscous flow of connected seconds, punctuated by my loud heartbeats. Suddenly in my over-exhausted, half-witted mind, I realise that the killer is instead hidden behind the door, wanting to escape, but Sherlock is still in his way. He raises his gun on my unsuspecting friend..._

_**. Third / final part .**_

Before I know it consciously, before I command my muscles to perform actions, I find myself already jumping on my unaware friend and throwing him off balance to the floor.

The bullet spins past us and Sherlock gasps painfully. Next thing, I'm raising a vengefully aimed Browning at the killer and pulling the trigger.

Before I can even blink, or verify if I got my mark, there are a couple of supportive shots from behind us. Only then time seems to unstill and the killer falls to the ground.

Sherlock and I untangle from our ungraceful heap and struggle to roll around to see Lestrade with his gun still drawn.

'Good shots', I praise Greg, thankful, as I catch my breath.

'A bit of an overkill', Sherlock comments, brushing fluff off his jacket, pretending not to be affected by it at all. He carefully redresses his scarf and stretches the kinks in his neck as he adds: 'But strangely appropriate for an over-killer.'

I roll my eyes at the cheap wordplay while I get up to go and check the killer's medical stats – or lack thereof.

_**.**_

Of course Greg wants us there for statements (and to take quick notes of Sherlock's full deductions). It's also obvious that Sherlock's got different plans as he ignores the inspector's demands.

As for myself, I've taken a quiet seat on one of the late killer's chairs and I'm numbly staring ahead, mindlessly following the procedures done by Greg's men. All the while, Sherlock has been irritably protesting, up till the point he glances up at me and goes suddenly quiet.

'Tomorrow, Lestrade', he says, forcefully, one last time.

Greg is still fired up, not realising the change in our friend's demeanour: 'I've got news for you, detective! _Tomorrow_ is already here so we might as well do it _now_!' with a sharp gesture he points to the sunrise beyond the ugly patterned curtains.

'Tomorrow', Sherlock insists, deafly. 'You know where to find us.'

'_Us_? You both?' Greg's finally caving in.

'Both', Sherlock insists enigmatically. There seems to be a sudden common understanding between the two of them, only present for a moment, before Sherlock turns away from DI Lestrade and comes over to me.

With an underrated gentleness he touches my forearm and ushers me up from my seat. Sherlock then takes it upon himself to hold my hand in his long dextrous fingers and starts leading me out of the killer's pad. I follow my friend like a numbed child, trustingly, while stumbling a bit over my own feet.

_**.**_

The cabbie assumed I was drunk, that much I can remember. Too much lack of sleep can slow your reflexes, lower your impulse control, impede your motor control and affect your better judgement, and generally expose hidden traits, much like alcohol consumption.

So I guess _I looked drunk._

Sherlock, on the other hand, was demure and quiet, so it took me less than two minutes to fall asleep on the back of the cab, leaning towards my friend.

From the way up 221 stairs, I remember only realising how incredibly soft is Sherlock's high quality wool coat. You see, he shuffled my right arm behind his neck and, bracing me sideways, he guided me all the way up the seventeen steps.

As if the world was composed of the dark swirling smoke I saw around me, the familiar sound of floorboards creaking followed my unsteady footsteps into a soft bed, where I landed with a grunt, headfirst.

With little control left over my body I was a distant spectator for what followed. I was gently tossed round till I was better aligned with the bed. I moved no muscle in helpful fashion. My head was lifted and prompted over soft pillows. My legs were hoisted up to the bed, my shoes were gently unlaced and removed, one at a time. I vaguely realised I was still wearing the A&amp;E scrubs (that I failed to replace for my own clothes at the call of one mad Sherlock Holmes) and the thought that I looked like a green slug splayed over a bed lulled me to sleep in a fit of giggles.

_**.**_

I woke up hours later with a simile of a hangover. To add to my confusion, I found myself in the _wrong_ bedroom. Sherlock's room is closer to the flat's entrance, I understood why, as I struggled with sore muscles to get up. Sherlock, on the other hand, must have, on account of his generosity, found himself bedless and I wondered if he spent the night on my bed or the sofa.

In rusty steps I move towards the kitchen and that's when I hear the sound of furious laptop typing from the kitchen's table. At the end of the corridor I glance over at Sherlock just as he glances back at me.

'You're awake', he tells me simply. The words almost seem foreign on him, as he states the obvious. In his rich voice, it sounds caring and pleased.

'Yeah', I retort, as if I don't think much of it.

'You have slept over fourteen hours straight, John', he informs me. I'm left gobsmacked by that and opt to take the chair closest to me, silently.

I honestly hadn't realised I was so badly off. A long overworked week, restless nights and a drive across the country, before we stormed a killer's bachelor pad, all got me to the brink.

Suddenly, with a queasy jolt to my stomach and full of dread, I recall: 'The bullet, did it hit you? I heard you!' There was a muffled painful gasp as the bullet speeded past us, I remember at last, as certain as if it had happened just now. How didn't my exhausted mind attribute any particular value to the most significant of sounds, when I was so desperately trying to save my friend?

I look wide-eyed to Sherlock, the ever unshakable man, waiting, _demanding_, for his answer. _Let it have been a nightmare, a delusion, a misleading sound – anything!_ That I heard Sherlock gasp as he fell on the floor, just before the impact to be precise, and my addled brain didn't react to the input; that I'd _forget_ in favour of firing back my gun and then just proceed like every day's business, is the biggest flaw I could have ever had in our friendship.

'It was nothing, John', he tells me, as he's studying me again. 'A mere scratch.'

I shake my head regretfully and lean forward over the edge of the table between us. Slowly I unravel the scarf he has wound round his neck and take a look at the pale skin underneath. A shallow gash, red, inflamed, but definitely not lethal, is now exposed. I can tell Sherlock was not so stubborn that he'd selflessly lead me to rest and then ignore his own wound till his doctor returned to full function. I see signs of some antibiotic cream dabbed over the scratch, but barely more than that.

'Okay, Sherlock, I may be late in doing this, but we'll go and take better care of this now. After all, I'm your doctor. I should have done this yesterday.'

He shakes his head, sincerely. 'It's okay, John.'

'I should have returned to London sooner too', I add, on a roll. 'You needed my help and I wasn't here. I should have—'

'John', he calls me softly.

'I should have driven faster and—' I start again, feeling agitated, guilty, desperate. Sherlock should have interrupted my training, forcefully if necessary. _He knows better than to go on a pursuit of a Nine without me. No point in fibbing, Sherlock, this case had the danger level of a proper Nine, not an Eight._ That's how I measure the cases, anyway. On how much Sherlock might need me to have his back. And this time I surely failed him. _Sherlock got hurt because I failed to protect him, I'm sure of that._

'John!' Sherlock shouts my name, and all of a sudden he's angry, _rightfully_ angry. His attitude has changed and he's brisk and loud now. It takes some willpower not to cringe. 'John, don't you _ever_ do that again!' Sherlock's irate tone snaps me out of my spiralling thoughts and I lift my chin, ready to hear truths I have coming spilled out at last.

Well, not that ready. 'What shouldn't I do, Sherlock? Save your life?' I snap to deflect the guilt I'm feeling inside. 'You should be thankful', I point out, hot-tempered. _Perhaps my exhaustion lingers on, acting out in a different way now._ 'Had I hesitated, that bullet would have gone right through your brain, Sherlock!'

My friend winds down magically. 'Don't mean that', he tells me in a meeker tone. More pondered, nevertheless. 'I mean before that.'

I don't follow. 'Go up north? Sherlock, we've been through this. I had training. I also need to work in order to make a living. It's a natural requirement in society.'

My friend rolls his eyes dramatically to having to state: 'You drove all night long, John.'

'Yes...' I say, but I actually get nothing. I don't like driving long distances, especially at night. I had reservations. So what?

'You were in no condition to drive, John. You could have fallen asleep at the wheel.'

I feel my cheeks reddening for I know he's right. 'I was fine.'

'John...' The way he says my name implies I'm fibbing now.

'I was careful. I thought it through. I wasn't a real danger to other drivers.'

His lips curl into a snarl. 'John, you could have had a car crash, and for what?' He explodes, angrily, vibrantly, guiltily: 'You shouldn't have hurried back. You shouldn't have gone storming in on a highly murderous killer with us.' His gesturing wildly as he gets up. 'Do you even realise how many times I could have lost you because I called you over to tell me what kind of a poison killed the second victim?' he keeps shouting; can't tell anymore if he's shouting at me or at himself. Shutting his eyes tight he repeats once again, in his self-absorbed mantra: '_What kind of poison, John?_ A _deadly_ one, that's what kind! _What kind of poison, John? _Why did I call you to a stupid crime scene?'

I blink, stunned. 'Sherlock... You've never called a crime scene "stupid" before', I mumble, in awe.

He returns towards me, intense, desperate. 'Why can't you get it through that thick skull of yours?' he very close to growls at me.

'But it's _the Work_!' It sounds silly even to me, as I hear it out loud.

'It only takes a few words and there it is!' he points angrily at me. 'I say "Just drop it, John", and you drop everything with no brain process at all! Stop it! You're not any less important than the Work! It barely means anything without you', he states openly this exaggerated belief whereas my rational friend would normally avoid these emotional platitudes.

Shouted or not, I feel touched by his words.

A proud smile uprising in hiding within me, I admit at last: 'You're right. I took a chance because I convinced myself you needed me here. But you know what? I needed myself here too.'

More settled, he nods and comes back to his chair. He takes his hands to his chin before saying: 'Never mind, John. The A&amp;E professionals don't know what they are missing since you've settled as a GP... Next time, John, you'll get a cab and sleep in it all the way back to London. Or, if you prefer, you'll tell me and I'll get a driver there to pick you up, from my numerous contacts all over the UK. Or, god forbid, I'll get one of my brother's men to get you.'

I'm not even trying to hide my thankful smile anymore. I nod, pledging to my friend's innocent I'll-solve-it-all solutions to my problems. My friend has the world at his fingertips and an incredible caring heart, representing this intoxicating mixture of freedom, danger and home.

'You'd do that for a Nine?' I ask, more gently.

He smirks. 'I'd do it for an Eight. Or even below, John, if it keeps you safe. Told you before: I need a blogger.'

'Greg won't let me blog about this Nine. You knew that from the start.'

'John, don't be tedious', he gives me a good scolding look. I can't help but giggle again, in complicity.

Well, guess it's time I get out of these green scrubs... At least I got to save a life while still wearing them after all, and I move away with a lingering smile on my face.

_**.**_


	144. Chapter 144

_A/N: Translations are at the bottom, but don't worry; secondary language inputs are non-important._

_More parts to come and still unfinished for now. I'm suffering from a major brain freeze that dissolves when I'm otherwise engaged and returns whenever I have a moment to spare for writing. So... Intermittent writer's block? Writer's jetlag? Post Special Episode's scrambled brain? I don't know. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part I .**_

"Sherlock's got hit by a car, John! He's been taken to hospital."

Like often on such occasions, I'm quite sure I've forgotten how to breathe for a few seconds. A cold shiver ran down my body as millions of questions dazzled me. _Where is Sherlock? I need to see him. How is Sherlock? I must tend to him. When did this happen? Why wasn't I there? ... How on earth did he manage to do something so stupid – and pedestrian – as to get hit by a car?_

"John, are you there, mate?" DI Lestrade insists.

I regain control of my body and focus my mind forcefully.

'Greg, how's—'

"He's okay, John", our friend cuts me off, straight to the point. "Given the circumstances, I mean. He's had a concussion and some ugly bruises. Nothing much, considering. Can't believe how lucky he was. Sherlock was there one minute and then— John, are you hyperventilating?" DI Lestrade's voice goes from calm paternalism to practical worry in 0.8 seconds flat.

I shake my head, confused with the abrupt change of topic. 'Not much', I convey truthfully. I close my eyes for a second longer, trying to distance myself from the crowded underground ride or the deep London enthrals we're crossing.

I'm a soldier and a doctor, both of which attributes should have eased me to such phone calls. I usually handle them clearheaded and restrained. There's something about Sherlock, though... It's always with Sherlock that I find myself at the end of my emotional reserves.

It has been like this since the Reichenbach business, if not before.

Greg's phone call is getting jammed with a broken-up signal connexion below street level and I hurry to get the core information out of him: 'Where was Sherlock taken to?'

"New Royal Hospital."

Okay, good, I can go there. Two underground journeys to get there. Still faster than a cab on rush hour. I'm currently heading in the wrong direction. I'll be off at the next stop.

'Greg, who were the people coming after him?' _Who's going to pay for this?_

"John, I don't like that tone of voice", Greg reads right through me.

'Never you mind that!' I snap back.

"John, it was an accident. An honest accident. Probably Sherlock's fault too. You know how he gets when he solves a case. He had that maniac joy as he exposed the answers, careful to imply we are all thick, then turned around to vanish in his glory and leave us with two crying witnesses and a struggling murderer. I think he was so high on solving the case he called a Seven that he didn't look to cross the street..."

'Ouch', I comment, wincing. 'So, you're absolutely sure it wasn't planned somehow? You know he's got plenty of hidden enemies, Greg.'

The man standing at my side in the underground carriage glances sideways at me. _Oh, yes, archenemies exist in real life, I learnt that lesson the hard way._

"Positive."

'What did the paramedics say?'

"Not much, not when you compare to how much our boy Sherlock had to say to them. As soon as he came to and saw them there, Sherlock became very talkative. They said the concussion was to blame. He just wouldn't shut up. Really. Most of his rambling was a monologue on how "John would do it better", if I recall. One of the paramedics asked him who John was, but Sherlock didn't take the bait. He'd just told them you'd settle his scores with them if they messed up."

A warm complicity giggle erupts from within me, despite the dire situation. That an emotionally stunted Sherlock Holmes would find his control lowered by a freakish accident and that would get the usually distant genius boldly displaying his trust and confidence in me is something else...

"Oh", Greg persists, "and I videoed it, in case you want to see it. I mean, Sherlock's rant. Figured I may as well, since it's not likely it'll get repeated ever again."

_Ta, Greg._ Don't even need to see it. The description warms my heart already. Sherlock's a good friend and he needs me right now.

This is my stop. _I'm on my way, Sherlock._

_**.**_

Some residual effects from the concussion were to be expected, of course. An MRI scan and all possible tests were performed in the younger Holmes, leading my friend to the point of frustrated exhaustion (I'd venture easily), before I was allowed to see him.

Both Greg and I agreed that it was perhaps better not to overcrowd a heavily-banged up Sherlock at this time, so I was carefully sent up ahead to grasp his situation and report back.

Apparently I've got some special status in the Holmes' VIP list, because as only family members were allowed to visit the recovering patient I was ushered in as some long lost cousin or something of the sort. _I wouldn't complain._

I walk the long white sterile lights corridor and the familiar scent (a 14% solution of pink disinfectant, mixed with industrial grade bleach and faint traces of alcohol based hand sanitizer) greets me as a friend from the past. It never smells quite the same, though, as when you were a junior doctor assigned to the A&amp;E as a part of your training, a patient with a blasted clavicle and shoulder in the wake of a terrifying war, or now as a close relative visitor powerless to heal my friend.

'Sherlock?' I'm sure the detective is alert and can recognise my footsteps, he wouldn't fail to know who they belong to – along with my weight, my mood, and whether I had coffee or tea for breakfast this morning. I further announce myself by calling him and tapping my knuckles at the private room's door (result of Mycroft Holmes' influences, I'm sure).

'Come in!' I hear Sherlock's strained but familiar voice from the inside. I push the door open gently, aching to take a good look at my friend.

Sherlock is reclined on the narrow hospital bed, hands clasped together over his lap as the only hint of discomfort or insecurity. Otherwise he looks composed, controlled. There's a rigidness to his torso's left side, where I'd imagine he got hit by the car _(ouch!) _and then hit the ground_ (ouch again!)_, and a vast red bruise forming at his left temple, are the outward signs of his misadventure.

I come in closer to study the size and dilation of his pupils, the colour on his cheeks as well as the blatantly displayed stats flashing on the machine he's hooked up to as a precautionary measure. All speak of a recent ordeal, but show no signs of permanent damage.

_He was so lucky that the realisation of what could have happened makes my knees falter._

'So, am I alive, doctor?' he mocks my summary examination.

'Yes, you lucky sod', I argue, as I take a tired seat at the visitor's chair. I part my hands midair in incredulity. 'What on earth...?'

He copies my baffled smile but _something_ in his expression remains guarded, sad.

'I mis— mis—' he rolls his eyes in search of that fugitive word but ends up sighing and going round it. 'I didn't think. Quite—' he frowns as he searches for his wordings.

'Humiliating?' I volunteer with an apologetic smile. Sherlock nods, relieved I caught on the right word.

'My speech seems to be... kinky. For now. No big words', he relays simply.

'That will shut you up', I realise at once. Not a nice thing to say, though, I take notice belatedly. Sherlock seems not to be bothered with my honesty, however, and he just nods in agreement. 'Sherlock, I'm quite sure this is temporary. Your brain got a big hit, after all. But trust me, most brain injuries won't last more than a few hours. The brain is an amazing organ, it can sort itself out... So, long words are trouble. Anything else?'

He shakes his head, honestly, containing his speech as a kid embarrassed by his answers.

'Long sentences and complicated words don't make you intelligent, Sherlock', I tell him sternly.

'I'm still brainy', he immediately cancels his vow of silence with his imperative need to let me know that his great mind – where it counts – is still whole. 'I can still read people, and I know all the digits of pi, and I can speak other languages. In fact, pi equals _três vírgula um quatro um cinco nove dois seis cinco*_... See, John? That was Portuguese, by the way. I can speak Portuguese just fine. _Perfeitamente**_. Even long words in Portuguese. Just not in a language you can talk back to me, John.'

'You can say "language" ', I frown. 'That's a big word.'

He shrugs. 'Can't say how it works, really.'

'Told you a brain is an amazing organ', I keep faith. 'Any small words missing?'

He gets upset. Raising his voice beyond advisable for his own headache, he demands at once: 'Stop being a doctor! I'm— I'm—'

_Damaged._ This time I stop myself from voicing his missing words. 'It's temporary, Sherlock. Soon you'll be fine, with some rest and time.'

He expressively rolls his eyes in frustration. I smile to encourage him, but it comes out sad. I know how much this hurts Sherlock, stamps down his confidence, erodes his arrogant façade by reminding him he's just like any of us.

_Painfully human and vulnerably fragile._

'You'll be fine, Sherlock', I promise my best friend.

_**.**_

Of course I told Greg Lestrade about it. Our friend needs to know Sherlock's incredible brain is untouched, it's only his verbalisation centres that are recovering. Most long strenuous words are out of reach, even if Sherlock's mind still races through deductions and problems like a hot knife through butter.

I'd guess his mind is so fast in his brilliant reasoning that Sherlock just barely registers his speech processes during his high firing synapses. His mind is still free at what he does best, that's a blessing. It's when he slows himself to our down-to-earth speeds that he gets flustered and his words falter.

A human brain is an amazing and complex creation, the depths of which medicine has only barely scratched the surface yet. There is so much potential in brain functioning knowledge that our nowadays level equates to the middle ages of knowledge.

We're one century on from prefrontal lobotomies as a Nobel Prize discovery and two centuries on from Phrenology science as an argument to support slavery. Who can tell what medical history will make of us in a century to come?

Sherlock may be missing his "big words" (that's how he voices it, the main thing he's noticed to affect him after he got hit by a car) but our return to a homely 221B feels as authentic and genuine as ever.

'Tea?' I ask my friend, as soon as I helped him to his armchair, he's grimacing as the soft leather breaches contact with his multiple bruises.

'Yeah.'

'Sugar?'

'Yeah.'

'Milk?'

'Don't—' he snaps angrily. 'You can use big words, no need to be daft like me!'

He's angry out of frustration, I can tell. I frown. _It's tea._ Why this inane explosion of character? Have I truly been altering my own speech pattern to match his? Have I been condescending towards Sherlock subconsciously?

'Why don't I make tea like you usually take it?' I voice, as I turn to the kitchen.

Sherlock grumps, more reasonable. 'If you don't say big words, it won't help me, John. I need to hear them. If I hear them they'll come to my mind easier, get it?'

_I guess. _Before I answer, he carries on:

'It's like learning a new language. I need to learn big words, how to think them. If you make it easier for me, it won't help me in the long run, John. Don't do that. Speak to me like you've always have, please.'

'Sure', I nod, 'if you want it... But, Sherlock, you know it's perfectly fine. You're communicating just fine. We can understand all you say.'

'People can tell', he reproaches, laconic. I realise he's worried about his professional image. As if an overbearing snappish detective boasting deductions at a crime scene can't be taken seriously with mono and disyllabic words.

_Well, he'll always be my hero._

And, anyway, I think this is only temporary. Some rest and Sherlock will soon be back to his old self. Speaking of which...

'How about you take this cuppa and I get you a warm blanket. I can out on some crap telly, it's perfect for _not really thinking_.'

Sherlock pretends some level of annoyance, but it's only superficial.

'Doctor's—?'

_Orders_, that's the word. 'Yes, Sherlock, let's pretend it's doctor's orders.'

'Join me?' he goes again.

'Definitively', I smile back at my miserable friend.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_

* * *

_Translations:_

_* three point one four one five nine two six five_

_** perfectly_


	145. Chapter 145

_(A/N) __Premise__: "Long sentences and complicated words don't make you intelligent, Sherlock" -John._

_Sidenote. We all adjust Sherlock's speech somewhat, because we fall into that trap of the genius speech with the complicated long sentences. In a way, it also makes our Sherlock sound timeless, along with the classically tailored suits and the violin. More so, it gives Sherlock an edge. Makes him more cocky, overbearing, defiant among the stupidity in the room. As a writer, I was just wondering what John thought about it, and I realised John couldn't care less about the big fancy words (John's speech is more relaxed, regional at times, seasoned with sarcasm and blunt if useful, torn between practicality and idealism, but equally capable on the big words) - and all along Sherlock would be so convinced he was successfully showing off to John and the rest of the world._

_This plot is the denial of that dynamic, and its consequences. Because I was bored - go figure._

_Context__: Sherlock got himself into a little accident and as a consequence of a nasty concussion he's having trouble thinking of and verbalising long words in English._

_Translations__ are [non-important plot-wise and] at the bottom. The choice of Portuguese was not necessarily favouritism, as much as the writer's laziness. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part 2 .**_

'Sherlock got hit by a car and fell over his hip and side. He has also banged his head and can't pronounce complicated words, as a general rule. Like all brain related matters, there are of course exceptions, and for some reason he can say "language" but not "orders". That's not much of an unexpected effect. It's all about how the brain stores and processes information, how the pathways linking words and experiences, and the overall learning, got formed. And that construction, although it's similar across humans due to the basic structure of the brain, is still a very personal and mysterious creation. Take the foreign languages thing, for example. Sherlock can still speak French, Spanish, Portuguese, German-'

'Okay, _okay!_' Greg cuts me off, with almost a temper tantrum, he's much too practical for my doctor-ish sermons. I blink, annoyed. I'm a doctor, I can make long speeches about things. It's not usually just Sherlock. I mean, _it is_ usually Sherlock with his deductions, and he speaks so fast in them that I've grown laconic in mine just to keep up.

Greg shakes his head, composing himself. _He's really troubled by what happened to our friend... _'Bottom line, John, he can't say big words.' I frown at the DI. 'Most big words', he corrects and I agree with a nod.

'And this is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about. He's not a happy bunny right now, as you can imagine...'

Openly honest, Greg assures me: 'I figured that out from the moment we started this conversation at 221's doorstep, because Sherlock won't let me up in the flat.'

I smile apologetically. 'He's not seeing anyone at the moment.'

'He's seeing you', Greg points out with no ill feeling.

'Yeah, well, I'm a household item like his skull, I guess...' I retort, absent-minded. _Come to think of it, Sherlock has turned his beloved skull towards the wall, by the mirror. So, not even the skull is allowed to "see" the vulnerable detective right now._

'John, I've got him some chicken soup. People say chicken soup is good for you when you are unwell. I know it's not a cold or anything like that, but...'

I smile; _Greg's a good man. _'I'm sure he'll enjoy it... when I make him eat it.'

Greg nods slowly. Then, out of the blue, he asks in genuine curiosity: 'How is it like, John? Does it make him sound more... human? Does he still sound uppish at all?'

I smirk with my friend, and think back. 'Still sounds like the Sherlock we know, really. I mean, you can tell something is off, mostly because he's going for the familiar words instinctively, but then he struggles and needs to go around them. I can tell he gets frustrated. Some substitute words are just not the same. It affects him, though, more than it affects us. He's... uncomfortable, and I feel for him. I keep assuring him it'll all go back to normal soon, but the truth is... I can't tell. It might not. For him, I hope so. None the less, I know it'll be fine once he gets used to it.'

Greg reads straight into me. 'John, there's nothing more you can do. You said it yourself.'

Shrugging, I reply guiltily: 'I'm the doctor.' _I can't fix this._

'Well, give Sherlock my best and the chicken soup. Make sure he takes at least one of the two. I'd wager you'd be luckier with the soup', he's retreating, ready to take his leave.

'I will, ta.'

_**.**_

"Uma situação lamentável, irmão.*"

That sounds like Mycroft Holmes, I realise as I return to 221B with my hands full of grocery bags. Is that... Portuguese again?

Figure the Holmes brothers would bypass English altogether and pick some obscure foreign language to avoid Sherlock's missing words. _That's cheating, Mycroft!_

They probably think I should study Portuguese, just in case they're on about some new important affair and I'm left waiting for translation.

"Contactei os melhores neurocirurgiões do país, claro.**"

"Naturalmente.*** Come in, John, make yourself at home!" he adds to me, as I reach the top of the stairs. How about some help with the multiple grocery bags? Didn't think so, either. As soon as I push the door open with the tip of my shoe, he carries on: 'My brother has come to... say his... he's sad.'

'Naturally', Mycroft seconds it. 'Expressing my sympathies was the natural response to the circumstances.'

I raise a brow. The funny thing is that Mycroft has always spoken like this. He's not trying to wind up Sherlock. _He's succeeding, anyway._

'I see', I state, neutrally. _No, I don't._

'He tells me', Sherlock goes on, bravely, 'that he has doctors for the...' he points to his head. _Left hemisphere, subcutaneous bruising, concussion?_

'Thanks, Mycroft, but it's early days and probably unnecessary', I assure politely, as I drop the shopping bags on the kitchen table.

'Naturally', he agrees, in his over appeasing manners. 'Just laying all the options on the table, so to speak... Sherlock, I'll be seeing you, no doubt.'

'Mal consigo conter a expectativa****', Sherlock pronounces effortlessly and by his expression I can tell he's dismissing his brother carelessly. Some things don't change, no matter the language.

Mycroft leaves, balancing the tip of his umbrella, and I turn back to my friend. 'Had a nice relaxed morning without me, then?'

Sherlock knows sarcasm when he hears it. He rolls his eyes viciously at me.

_**.**_

The sharp incoming message alert snaps both Sherlock and I from a quiet meal at Baker Street's kitchen table. I had just put together some pasta (just like a kid, this is one of the meals I know Sherlock will eat the best) when his phone went off.

At once, alarm bells ring when I see no effort from my friend to look at his phone, in his pocket.

'Aren't you going to take that?' I ask him, with a blank expression.

'No.'

_Monosyllabic answers, something is definitely up. Sherlock has just spared himself of the second syllable to keep his answers as short as possible._

'Lestrade?'

His light coloured eyes shoot up straight at my face, studying me.

'Maybe.'

'A new case?'

'Hm.'

_Great, now he grunts as an answer. Something is surely up._

'You're not taking it?'

'No.'

'That makes it a double negative, have you realised?'

'Hm.'

'You can't hide in 221B forever, either. I know it's only the first day, and you must be very sore, possibly have a good old fashioned migraine to top it all , but if this is about the speech thing...'

'Yes', he says.

_Is he actually admitting it?_ 'Yes, it's about the speech thing? Sherlock, it's hardly noticeable. And... and if it really worries you, we can keep it all between us and Greg Lestrade. No one needs to hear you say a word at the crime scene, I can make sure no one speaks a word to you while you're there. Will that make it better?'

'Yes.'

_Oh, wow. Right. Well, then._ 'Deal.'

_**.**_

Sergeant Donovan is the one at the Yard team that doesn't have the heart to greet Sherlock Holmes. She just stares wordlessly, radio intercom falling off her grasp, mouth opening in awe, as Sherlock and I cross the blue and white police chord. It could be because she never particularly liked us. She thinks we're meddling amateurs who won't play by the rules and one day we'll let murderers go free. On the back of her mind she might even wonder if Sherlock Holmes hasn't solved quite a few cases that stole her thunder and kept her from a well deserved promotion, simply by Sherlock being Sherlock - a well oiled deductions machine.

Most likely, she's stuck on the purple bruising so evident in Sherlock's forehead and the red swollen patch by his eye, result of where he hit the pavement. All in all, it's a customary look at crime scenes, but generally reserved for the victims.

Sherlock is no victim - just a lucky sod - and I carefully fix upon Sally Donovan my warning stare, alerting get to keep quiet. Sherlock Holmes has arrived to the crime scene and shall not be disturbed.

_It's like being a bodyguard, I suppose._ With Sherlock on the lead, Greg Lestrade between us, and me falling behind with a martial stance of protection we cross the oily floor of a fast food restaurant's kitchen where someone got murdered.

If Sherlock is bound to silence, Greg is making up for it by talking non-stop. This way, our consulting detective is getting updated without even having to ask for information. Seeing our friend's impatience grow, I'd venture Sherlock finds most of the helpful information spewing out of the DI's mouth useless and pointless. In fact, Greg's niceness might be too much background noise for Sherlock to think. Before I can mention it to Greg, Sherlock snaps loudly:

'Shut up, all of you!'

His voice is wild, his gestures are maniac, and only the careful previous consideration of which simple words to use tells me that Sherlock maintains control, even if only by a thread. 'Don't think, don't move, don't-'

No one else seems to notice that Sherlock didn't finish his sentence. Everyone's much too shocked by the temper burst, I'd guess.

'Sherlock...' I warn him he's not winning social points. _Business as usual._

He rolls his eyes like a petulant child in a wordless protest. _I know, Sherlock. Hundreds of words are out of your grasp, even to let out the pent up frustration._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_

_Translations:_

_* A regretful situation, brother_

_** I've contacted the best neurosurgeons in the country, of course_

_*** Naturally_

_***** I can hardly contain myself / literally: I can hardly contain the expectation._


	146. Chapter 146

_(A/N) __Premise__: "Long sentences and complicated words don't make you intelligent, Sherlock" -John._

_Context__: Sherlock got himself into a little accident and as a consequence of a nasty concussion he's having trouble thinking of and verbalising long words in English._

_-csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part 3 .**_

Fast food restaurants' prep area is not a very comfortable place, generally speaking. They can be hot, humid, heavy scented of hot oil and burnt crisps over raw onion. However, they tend to be well organised spaces, with clearly defined sections, and given that most food's preparation comes from frozen portions, thus minimising cross-contamination and cooking times.

This accounts for the excess of packaging thrown to the waste bin, currently being excavated by the forensic team in white suits. They are looking for a very particular murder weapon, one that doesn't belong in a kitchen.

With a nod at Anderson, who is supervising the team and standing guard at a distance, I then kneel down at the side of the young victim on the floor.

'Heart failure?' Greg asks, doubtfully.

I shake my head briefly. Even before kneeling on the floor I had already spotted trouble. 'There are some prong marks on the exposed skin at the neck here... and here, Lestrade. Looks like multiple attempts at piercing the skin with some instrument, such as an hypodermic needle. Some bruising started to form on the area, so it happened before the victim died... Only a tox screen can tell if it was the cause of death.' I raise a cold eyelid and stare death in the eye. 'Yes, he was high when he died. Might not even have known what was coming to him... Poor kid.'

Sherlock grunts from behind me, somewhat close to DI Lestrade, but he won't elaborate when I turn to face him.

'What makes you so sure it was murder, Lestrade?' I ask. 'It could have been an accidental overdose', I point out, still kneeling by the young victim's side. As if in this uncomfortable position I could offer the lost young man the last grace of not being so alone in his death.

Sherlock, however, is fully immune to my soppy behaviour — _his words, not mine —_ and has easily walked off to study the crime scene in further detail. Lestrade tells us: 'The second victim was taken to A&amp;E, still alive. Might not make it. The emergency team suspects a new type of designer drug that's been going around.'

I frown. 'Lousy place for a recreational activity.'

Greg shrugs. 'After work, the joint was already closed. These two were supposed to clean and lock up. The line manager left early for his daughter's ballet recital.'

'So we're looking for an injectable drug with lethal consequences.'

'And the drug dealer', Greg adds logically. 'Sherlock, any ideas?' he asks in the same breath.

That was an odd timing, but I don't think much about it. After all, Sherlock's mind is not focused on his network of contacts, but on the bottom of a full greasy deep fryer.

'No', he answers succinctly to the DI.

'Keep yourself focused, will ya?' Greg says, worriedly. Again, I feel like there's a parallel secret talk going on between the two of them. Is this because of what Greg knows of Sherlock's tumultuous past history, in Sherlock's youth?

_Sherlock, any ideas? _Those were the words chosen at an improvised drugs den. _No._ That was the non-defiant honest answer.

'Plan?' Sherlock mutters back tentatively, almost subdued, after a few seconds break. As if giving me enough time to catch up on the nod to the past history between Greg and Sherlock himself, before I met them. This, the great detective doesn't know how to verbalise even when the English language comes compliant to him. This, he wants me to know, as a friend, but he rarely puts out in the open. This, is as much of a secret talk as we'll have today.

'No plan, Sherlock!' Greg has already answered, warningly.

Sherlock wasn't asking for a plan, he was volunteering one — the evident one, the one he hardly needed to waste his sparse words verbalising. _No,_ we are not going to infiltrate a drugs ring as clients. This is not the time or the place. No need for that. In the long line of possible plans, this isn't even plan B. It's hardly plan Z, if any.

'I can do it better now, like this', Sherlock comments casually, rationally even. Now that he perceives himself damaged, slow-witted, with his speech pattern possibly more in line with the average dealer or long time user.

I get up from the floor at once, ready to rebut the way my vulnerable friend is trying to sell himself short. _Sherlock sees right through me, and my mission._ At once he diverts: 'Empty the oil in the fryer. The clue is in the dregs.'

Greg Lestrade doesn't even question Sherlock's deduction. He signals at Anderson — the only one in the forensic team that is not currently engaged on a job. The forensic looks less than thrilled to go through old used smelly oil, and protests loudly: 'Lestrade, he's making it up! He can't possibly know that!'

Faithfully, Lestrade backs up the Baker Street's team and gestures towards the oil. 'It's your job, Anderson. Just because it was Sherlock's suggestion doesn't make it his job.'

'Why not? If he insists on doing everything else...' Anderson mumbles, sending a dirty look Sherlock's way, before setting off to get rubber gloves. At our newfound momentary privacy Greg asks, concernedly: 'Are you sure about this, Sherlock? That's one odd place to dump a used needle...'

'No. Clever', Sherlock insists, frustration rising in him against all of us, because we can't read his mind — that still flows furious and free, enslaved by his tricky words. 'Clever', he insists strongly, getting less and less fluent as he finds himself getting mire flustered. 'The— The— But— And— _Argh!_' He bends forward and takes his fists to the sides of his head, like he's in pain — not physical pain, but it comes close.

I open my mouth to beg him to be patient, but I hold it in, because I know it'd make it worse. 'Is it the type of oil, Sherlock?' I dive into a wild guessing twenty questions game. He relaxes minutely, and just like that, it's as if we're playing some board game at 221B. One on guessing Sherlock's deductions, instead of movie titles or naming the band that played a hit song. 'Is it the temperature, Sherlock?' I go again, still just hazarding ideas. He nods, looking suddenly relieved, as I find and name his elusive word. From then on it's easy and I do it myself: 'Greg, the drop of the hypodermic needle in the oil from the fryer wasn't unplanned. The oil must have been still very hot at the time, the fryer had just been turned off. Greg, the oil's high temperatures change the drug chemically at a molecular level, altering the single to double chains and thus creating a different compound, harder to trace. Whoever disposed of the syringe in this way knew they were getting rid of the evidence to a murder, if not two murders. That's too clever and committed to have been done by these two kids. You can tell they were inexperienced, just look at the trouble they had to get the drugs in themselves, the bruising shows it took several tries. Lestrade...' I name, but first I cross gazes with Sherlock and he nods back at me, 'we're looking for another person, likely older, who help them get the drug. Then, seeing they were reacting badly, didn't call for help. In fact, he waited around. Then he disposed of the evidence that could point back to him, destroying it by means of high temperature oil. This suggests a clear-headed man, used to improvise, knowledgeable on chemistry.' I look at Sherlock; _is that all?_

'The cook', he states, verging on complete calm now.

'Oh, right!' _I get it._ 'Lestrade, it's highly likely we're looking for the drug's inventor and these have been his test subjects as well as his first victims. How else would two young men working at a fast food place pay for a new highly sophisticated designer drug, just coming on to the illegal market?'

Greg presses his lips thin before considering: 'Is it likely that there will continue to be more victims popping up?' I nod in agreement, and so does Sherlock. Greg turns abruptly to Anderson. 'Found anything yet?'

Sherlock smirks. 'Give him time', he says in fake helpfulness. 'He has low—'

_Sherlock..._ 'Manual dexterity skills', I finish for my friend, never the less.

'You need to be—' Sherlock insists, blanking abruptly again.

'To be careful', I finish again, not really thrilled to be pushed into their squabble. It's as if Sherlock's testing my loyalty now. Greg comes to my rescue, grabbing hold of Sherlock to redirect him to other small evidences laying around.

Before I can follow my friends, Anderson flinches instinctively, still elbows deep in the murky oil of the fryer's tub. _Oh, no, don't tell me he just got pricked by a needle full of drugs..._ He crosses a very scared look with me and I can tell he just thought the same. _Damn, I need to help him. He's my patient now._

Slowly I help him emerge an oily blob containing a syringe and put it to the side. Then I help him off his rubber gloves and search the hand's skin for puncture marks.

'I don't think you've got any damage done', I finally decide. Then I look around to find my next priority's whereabouts; Sherlock. Anderson doesn't fail to interpret:

'He's coming back with DI Lestrade, and he's still on his feet. Amazing, considering the knock he got yesterday...'

'You saw it, then?'

'I was there', Anderson agrees. Then, as if chasing his thoughts, he asks me, point blank: 'Why are you always finishing Sherlock's sentences anyway?'

_Shit. And Sherlock is sure to have heard the question._ 'It's an exercise', I make it up quietly.

'What?' Greg starts, coming up with our friend, before he catches up.

I frown. 'Well, I'm not a master of deductions, am I? Sherlock knows I've always admired his methods, his cleverness', I admit, looking straight at my friend. 'So I finally had the courage to ask.'

'Ask him to _teach_ you?' Anderson scrunches his face. 'He's teaching you?'

'Hardly', I dismiss as I'm cleaning my own greasy hands with paper towels. 'He's Sherlock Holmes. He's not a teacher. He assumes I should have got it by now. That's what he tells me', I lie easily. 'I got it, I just don't use it. So he took it upon himself to test me. I see but do not observe. I hear but do not listen. I go through the motions and don't question... He's been testing my attention spam, if nothing else. Whenever he leaves a sentence on hold I need to finish it for him... Maybe some day he will teach me for real', I add, straight at my friend. 'I really hope so. I'd love to be a tiny bit as brilliant as he is at a crime scene', I confess.

Sherlock turns away abruptly and without saying a word, just like a cold rational bastard would — without the slightest acknowledgement of my soul bearing. Only I know the real reason he's keeping silent, and so I follow him loyally at once.

'Found that syringe, Anderson, did ya?' Greg asks out loud. 'Bag it up.'

We followed Sherlock to Greg Lestrade's patrol car as if we were on a secretive mission. In fact, we're just rewarding ourselves with a small bit of privacy. Sherlock takes a seat on the back of the car, keeping the door open and his legs sticking out. He looks pale and drained.

'How are you holding up, Sherlock?' Greg asks him, concerned.

Exasperated, Sherlock lets his shoulders sag at last, comforted to have such a limited audience. He finally lets off his chest: 'Can't do this! I sound like— like—'

Greg frowns. 'Like _what?_'

'Not what, _who_!' Sherlock hints at once.

Greg and I both turn our heads in Anderson's general direction. _Oh._

'Of course not', Greg lies smoothly, as he pats our friend on the arm. Sherlock fast glances at me to check my stand over his statement and, caught unprepared, I can't scold my features in time. I'm sure Sherlock can still see the commiseration on my expression because he groans loudly.

'I — hate — this!' he hisses at last, facing away from us and the crime scene.

'It's temporary, Sherlock', I remind him patiently, as a physician.

'Too — long', he protests.

'I know', I confess, sad. _Not that it helps..._

Greg asks then: 'How about singing, Sherlock?'

We both stare at Greg at the same time, as if he's grown a second head. 'They say it works for people who stutter, you know... Or maybe if you had a fright, just a small one, or a glass full of water...'

_Ugh!_ I roll my eyes. 'It's not a case of hiccups, Greg!' I protest. 'And it doesn't even work for hiccups!'

'It does for me!' he defends himself.

I'm just about to ask him what on earth is wrong with him, when I spot a small hint of a smile quirking Sherlock's lips. _So, we're distracting Sherlock now._

_And it's working. Greg's a natural at this._

'How about breathing into a paper bag for hyperventilation?' I add, faking seriousness. 'We haven't tried that...'

'No, definitely singing', Greg decides, firm, for some reason. 'We can all do it. Sing at a crime scene's perimeter line. Give us a tune, John!'

_No, no, no — not doing this! _I opened my eyes wide and stepped back before I knew it, bumping against the car's open door. 'Not happening, mate!'

'Come on, Sherlock! Help me out, here!' Greg nudges Sherlock softly.

'I can't sing!' I pronounce in incredulity.

Sherlock quips in: 'Good liar, John.' _What, back there?_

Greg backs him up. 'I say he's still lying, yes.'

My turn to groan loudly, exasperated. _How did I walk myself into this?_

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	147. Chapter 147

_(long A/N) __Premise__: "Long sentences and complicated words don't make you intelligent, Sherlock" -John._

_Sorry if the postal services have been considerably delayed since chapter 144 - I had an intransigent timeline to abide by! There's one lovely reviewer (EJBRUSH1952) who needs to keep eyes open... Actually, I kind of took ownership of the idea and played with it. Hope it's okay._

_The lovely Seanaface has been putting an English language magnifying glass to my stories and looking them over. The list she's come up with so far is thorough, result of an incredibly generous hard work - and not manageable on a phone on my part. Heavy duty machinery will be required, so no changes up yet. I find that I have difficulty separating what is my own style (born out of years of stubbornly writing for an audience of only myself) and what comes as a result from a language barrier (and I so desperately need to get better)._

_Smaller update here, before I think too much on how I write and it scares the sh*t out of me! -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part 4 .**_

I'm washing up Sherlock's test tubes. Yes, yet again. Even though I have often threatened my mad scientist friend that I had enough of that. He should wash his own test tubes. He just lets them pile up and eventually Mrs Hudson will throw his test tubes with leftover heavy metals and poisons into the dishwasher. As a doctor I oppose to having cutlery washed by water tainted with arsenic, lead or ricin (for all I know). Also, it's not Mrs H's job, she's not the housekeeper. And dishwashers are bloody useless when it comes to test tubes. The annoying things need to be scrubbed individually on the inside and rinsed a few times to get the detergent out before-

'Sherlock, you need to rest.'

I stop my voluntary chore abruptly as I realise that I've been hearing Sherlock pace up and down in his room. _Definitely not within doctor's orders._

'I'm fine', he snaps back, and I could almost believe him, if he didn't sound so abrasive, curt, _vulnerable_. 'Sherlock, please...' I insist, turning the tap off and lowering some of my weight on my wrists, supported at the edge of the kitchen sink. Water droplets dribble onto the floor by the sink.

It marvels me that my request works and Sherlock emerges from his hermit cave, shuffling his feet somewhat, like a kid doing the right thing but against his better judgment. Was it because I said _please_? The man that detests social niceties and classifies them as hollow and pretentious, wouldn't fail to respond to my natural phrasing and sense it genuine. Knowing perhaps that I'm his friend and mean well. Trusting me as a friend and a doctor like to no one else. It's difficult waters to thread and I wouldn't let anyone else have that privilege. _It's also the most important mission I'll have in my life - protect Sherlock._

'What's in the mantel, John?'

I can sense Sherlock's derogative frown even before he emerges from the corridor into where I can see him. _Is my friend hiding?_

I play the game and walk ahead to the mantel, atop of which stands quite an impressive row from the afternoon's postal service of get-well-soon cards. All from friends, colleagues and former clients, following Sherlock's traffic accident. All with Sherlock's recovery in mind. I've put them there, one by one, treasuring how much their senders cared and the generous best wishes inside. I genuinely thought they would brighten up Sherlock. _Maybe not, I realise as I turn around after a suitable amount of private time for my friend._

'Sherlock?' I'm taken back at first sight of my friend. His overall demeanour is less than his usual crisp composure. It doesn't help that he's foregone his tailored suits or his luxurious silk dressing gown. Instead, he's sporting track suit bottoms and an inside-out large stripes t-shirt. _Wait a second..._ Is that one of my old t-shirts? Thought I'd lost it. Must have been forgotten on a laundry basket when I left behind Baker Street, I wasn't paying attention... Anyway, how did Sherlock come by it? Mrs Hudson might have thought it was his, I suppose. The poor lady never got rid of many of his things. Even if the t-shirt sleeves are a tad too short for him and the chest length a bit stretched. I'd point it out, but Sherlock is sure to make a comeback about with my short frame again... Well, he needs cheering up, he might benefit from my sacrifice. _It's not quite like singing at the edge of a crime scene... I don't want to think of that._

'...Is that my old t-shirt?' I point my finger at it, hiding my smirk. _Try and deny that, Sherlock!_

He nods, briefly. Silently.

'Doesn't quite fit you, Sherlock!' I add. _Go on, take the bait; break the ice, Sherlock..._

He shoots a warning look my way. 'Not smart tonight. I'm like _you_, tonight.' He carelessly points at the t-shirt. 'It's me, tonight.'

I'm left dumbstruck, mouth opening in disbelief. I should be hurt, angry, with this implied notion that I'm not that smart. Well, I'm not a genius, I know that - but I can hold my ground. _I'm much more troubled by how sad Sherlock looks than by his words._

'Sherlock, you're a seasoned Royal Medical Army Core officer tonight?' I frown, as if misunderstanding him and being confused.

He looks like he's about to demand to be answered what is the square root of 144, the atomic mass number of Carbon, how many Olympian deities there were on ancient Greek mythology, or something so elementary that I must have forgotten by now. But that would require too many words...

I'm about to tell him to keep my bloody t-shirt for himself when he finally speaks - carefully, pondering every following word:

'I said _you_, John. Not some other. I'm not brain dead yet.'

_What? I don't get it._ Does that mean to imply I'm somewhere above average level (and bellow the genius threshold)? Before I can demand further elaboration, Sherlock is already briskly moving away to the kitchen. _Tea_, right. He needs his tea. I'll make him some late evening tea.

'No', he tells me without turning. 'Today, me.' He seems adamant.

_Why? Is tea making a chore for the less speech fluent now?_ I shake my head in disbelief, but - hey, I'm not about to stop Sherlock from making his own tea here!

I sit at the table with restless hands and a certain discomfort. It's not the sight of Sherlock making me tea - he actually looks quite proficient (although he didn't quite boil the kettle, that's just not right). I'm just not used to being the one unoccupied while my friend labours manually. It's not as alluring to me as Sherlock finds it for himself.

How weird would it be if Mrs Hudson walked in right now? Seeing me at the table and Sherlock, dressed up as me, bustling about in the kitchen? Well, only one thing I can do... I take my phone out and start going through the day's collection of emails, texts and news. I'm more and more like Sherlock every day. Should I put on a posh shirt? Pick up a musical instrument?

'Stop it!' Sherlock snaps at last, with an expressive eye roll. Immediately I know he's been eavesdropping on my thoughts again. Lowering my phone, I'm stunned as I face him.

Sherlock, stubbornly muted, gets his hands on his hips, like a defiant fishwife, and tilts his head for further expression.

'Yeah, I know', I declare, getting up. 'You feel like me today, Sherlock; but I'm never going to be you, am I?' Not even looking back, or pondering how broken my rhetorical question sounded, I sneak back upstairs through the kitchen door.

'John! Tea!' He still calls out for me, after a few seconds of dumbstruck silence.

If Sherlock is right; if he's not the brainy genius in our partnership anymore, then there's no one capable of taking up the role. _It's hardly going to be me doing it, right?_

I cross my old room and sit at the edge of the bed. My righteous anger is slowly seeping out and I'm left tired and ashamed. Pinching the bridge on my nose with both thumb and index finger I struggle to make sense of what just happened. _Why did I snap at Sherlock?_

Because it hurts me to see him selling himself short. He's my hero, silent and strong, and I refuse to play into his game and see him as less than he is due to his "idiot speech" thing. For heavens sake, it's just words. And words, in my experience, always fall short of the full meaning we want to impregnate in them. They're there one moment, metaphorically floating in the air, and the next they're gone, delivered, and we're looking on others for all these minute hints to tell that we've been rightfully understood. Then there's more words - answers - and the dance carries on. It's still all words, and words shouldn't replace deeds and intentions, and Sherlock's pride shouldn't even be on the line, he's got nothing to be ashamed of.

_I do._

It's become cringed, this piece of paper that I stashed away in my pocket. A postcard. A smaller one, more discrete, not the bigger flashier version like the majority of Sherlock's get-well-soon cards. The ones he may have just chucked into the lit fireplace, judging by the smokiness of burnt paper alongside the grounding warm scent of logs burning. This smaller card has come with the others, and it's been addressed to me. Lord knows I don't need one, I'm healthy enough. Maybe someone thought I'd be jealous of the library-sized amount Sherlock got, but that would be very good foresight in terms of what arrived via the post. More likely the unsigned postcard means only what has been plainly written in a familiar scrawling handwriting: "hang in there, John".

I'm sure I know this handwriting. Maybe Greg's? He's aware of all the fundamental indicators that could lead me to _need_ this message. Sherlock's true predicament - still secret to the Yard beyond the painful traffic accident - and Sherlock's predictable reaction to his physical vulnerability.

_Hang in there, John._

What have I done? Sherlock is lashing out because he's hurt. It's simple enough to understand. Why have I let his dramatics hurt me so easily when I know the man has trouble voicing his emotions? More so, making any sense of them?

I smooth the cringes on the card's surface before gently storing it in the nightstand. Better that Sherlock doesn't see it. He might get the wrong impression, somehow. _He's prone to that._

I get up with a tired sigh, stretch my shoulder and slowly make my way downstairs.

'Sherlock, are you there?' It's only fair I announce myself. As I come to the landing outside the living room and take a peak inside, Sherlock is already looking back at me. Sat on his armchair, grasping the armrests on each side, honest troubled gaze facing mine with no veil of theatrical defence. He just faces me back, quiet. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock', I make sure to say. He nods, in a way I've learnt to read as _me too_, rather than expect such verbalisation.

Sherlock doesn't say these things - _sorry, please, thank you_ \- for trivial matters. He can't make sense of cheapening these expressions. In a more sociopathic streak, he can't make sense of using them except to manipulate people. _Not with me._ He uses these social niceties with me only when they hold a deep true meaning, making them the more striking, genuine, but also needless to voice between us. I've learnt to read what Sherlock finds difficult to say, long before he's found himself a speech impediment.

'Mind if I join you?' Another useless social query.

'Not at all', he actually answers, making his wish for my presence the more vibrant, almost needy.

I come closer, searching for the right approach. Then I realise there is no tea by his side and the mantle is indeed bare. I don't need to be a master of deduction to tell what went on. The frustration, the venting.

'Tea, Sherlock?' I offer. _Clean slate._ He nods. Then, restless, he looks away into the crackling fire, and perhaps ashamed he taps his fingertips on the armrest.

'Violin, Sherlock?'

He snaps his gaze towards me, confused. I think back on what I said and shake my head at once. 'Not me, you!' I make sure to tell him, he's smirking as if picturing me trying to make heads or tails of his violin after making the tea. I notice that it means he'd actually lend it to me, his most prized possession, and it warms my heart. _Again, complete trust, right here._

'I can play', he accepts, getting up. Still too brisk, too jittery, but definitely more in control.

As I turn to the kitchen, engaging in my tea making routine, the first violin notes, melodically stringed together in perfect harmony, cross 221B.

I'm fairly sure this is one of his own personal compositions. By the sheer pace and flow I can't possibly imagine he'd be making it up on the spot, and yet there's new notes and influences to his music that I've never heard before. There's a sadder, more vulnerable tickle to the strings as if he was baring his soul with no masks, no protection, no refuge.

Sherlock may have lost his "big words" but in his soliloquy I can hear the battling raging ocean tides under the calmer, more collected surface.

_I know, Sherlock. I know._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	148. Chapter 148

_(A/N) __Premise__: "Long sentences and complicated words don't make you intelligent, Sherlock" –John._

_I know I've been away and I apologise for the unusual delay. It was unplanned and unforeseen. No improvements on past publications yet (although I've got a beautiful work waiting for me). As I came back, I decided to dive into the story headfirst; I needed this grounding feeling I get when writing. Turns out I came back with much to say and this instalment ran longer than planned. So this won't be the last of this sequence yet. (Hopefully people weren't keeping their fingers crossed; it'd be painful after such a long time, no matter how metaphorical.)_

_Ps. There's an NHS employee number for John in here. I have no idea what these numbers are supposed to look like. Much like I started calling "Chandler" to my throwaway characters, I looked around for a throwaway number. It came to be the number associated with this story at the website. It might come across as a bit smug, but far from it, I was desperate for a convincing "random" number. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part 5 .**_

As I enter 221B's living room with my hands full of grocery bags, I can still spot my idle friend hastily putting away some small book. _Was that a thesaurus?_ Was he studying, trying to overcome his impairment by relearning it all from scratch?

I shouldn't be surprised. Sherlock is an academic genius. Even with a naturally high IQ – and a stubbornness that borderlines the _regardless of his IQ scores_ – he must have fought hard to excel at all forensic and criminal science related subjects. I mean, solar system and all other shenanigans aside, he can give me a run for my money in medicine, for instance. It's always a pleasure to debate a rare form of disease with Sherlock. I dare say some of my professional colleagues couldn't quite compete.

'Sherlock', I start, as I huff out, hitting the soft fabric of my old battered armchair with a thud, taking a seat. 'I know it hasn't been easy, and I know that sometimes it has been disheartening, but you have been doing great.' I smile at him, trying to impress in him my strong belief.

'It's been more than 24 hours', he points out, shamelessly recuperating his little study aid. He knows he's been spotted. Again, he seems to be less concerned given that it's me, at the privacy of our Baker Street.

I sigh as I fully take in the meaning behind his words. I told my friend his temporary condition was fuelled from the head trauma, and shouldn't last more than 24 hours.

He knew those 24 hours were a rough estimate, _right_?

_Guess not. Sometimes Sherlock can take things a bit too literally._

'I said that', I own up to the practical lie.

'It's okay, John', he forgives me at once, with no hard feelings. That's Sherlock alright; _also_.

'Look, it doesn't mean it won't come back. Chances are that it will and your speech will go back to how it was before. It might happen faster if you relax and try not to be anxious about it. You've been doing great, you know that? Better than any of my patients would.'

'Not one of your– them.'

'No, you're not. You're one of a kind', I agree, in true admiration, genuinely. This time he responds with less suspicion, and I feel like I've just won a small battle.

I watch my friend return to his quiet studies, resigned to fight in order to drive his destiny, and I can only admire his strong will. No matter how many times I tell Sherlock "it's not noticeable" and "it doesn't really matter", he doesn't _feel it_ that way. It really aggravated him, then depressed him, at first. Now he's taking matters into his own hands, fighting for a modicum of control in this unpredictable outcome, forced by bad luck.

Falling as quiet as my friend, as if his stubborn mood is permeating through the whole flat, filling it with his silent struggle, I grab my laptop to browse the daily news. I want to find out what the press made of yesterday's crime scene. It had a full potential to become a bad pun headline or a lame joke, easily forgetting the tragedy of a young life lost at the scene. And, in fact, the fate of a second one in hospital. I guess I could find out about that second victim. Maybe even while Sherlock studies his English language little book. With his incredible memory, my friend might already have gone through all of the book by the time I come back. Well, retaining the information is not the problem. Accessing it when necessary is. So I can't really tell if his effort will actually pay off.

'I can go!'

I'm startled by the abrupt words breaking the quiet silent spell around the flat.

'Sherlock?'

'I can go', he suggests to my train of thought, almost a bit too meekly.

_He wants to go; he'll need a "big words" one-way translator from me._

'You really know what I was thinking about, don't you? You did it again, the whole mind reading thing?' He nods, as if I have just asked him the most reasonable question. Then, for my benefit alone, he tries to explain, in his painfully broken-up speech:

'You're a doctor, John. You work in... as a doctor... All days you get up to go to work, before you get out of the door you check the watch on your wrist. You always know the time and you always check your watch. You don't really... do that... other times in the day. You never really look at your watch unless you go to work. If I ask you the time, you look at your phone or another watch...'

_Do I?_ I look down at the blue square dial. 'It's an old watch. It has been broken so many times, I suppose I don't fully trust it.' _Family heirloom, I guess._

'You always put it on. That means... It has... It was your father's, I think. That's why you put it on.' _Sentiment._ 'Even when it won't work, you carry it.' He shrugs. 'You don't really check it. Only time you look at it is when you go to work. That... links your family with you being a doctor. Don't really know how...' he hesitates, searching my expression for answers.

'My mother was unwell when she gave it to me. It came from my father, a family heirloom Harry would love to have.' I look out the window suddenly, searching for the best words to suit my explanation. Vaguely noticing the mirrored states between me and my friend, both fighting for words and self-expression. And, supposedly, there's nothing wrong with me. 'Maybe somewhere in my family there's the reason I decided to become a doctor in the first place', I end up saying; not wanting to say too much, halfway into creating some sort of riddle. But Sherlock knows, _he must know_, although we never talked about it. I don't really talk about the past, not even with him, unless I'm forced. I look at my wristwatch and evoke Sherlock's fabulous deduction from my lifelong habit. 'I looked at it when I thought about doctors and hospitals, and work. That is incredible, Sherlock.'

He shrugs. 'Easy', he minimises in an almost uncharacteristic moment of modesty. They're rare but they happen.

Getting up from my armchair I go grab both our coats and scarves. 'Shall we?'

In less than a minute we're out the door.

_**.**_

Infiltrating a hospital is not the easiest thing to do. In fact, it's both gross negligence and a high security breach, and if I wasn't the blogger of a mad consulting detective I'd never find myself abusing my old pass to enter the areas where visitors aren't allowed.

Lucky for me, I've been given a pass at an A&amp;E for refreshment training on emergency procedures about a month ago. Due to some technical error, or the fact that I shot out the door the moment it ended, or even a Mycroft's insightful meddling generosity, the pass is still working and it has just allowed us into the doctor's changing rooms. Getting a clean pair of scrubs for each of us was easy; they come in one or two sizes, and elastic bands and excess fabric accommodate different heights and body shapes.

As we both change our usual day clothes for the green scrubs I can't help worry about what will happen if we get caught. Something as simple as being drawn up by a frantic nurse to do CPR on a struggling patient. Both Sherlock and I can do that, together or separately. Sherlock's knowledge on medicine for the living is just a touch less vast than his knowledge of pathology, and he's completely apt. The trouble would arise if he had to pass a diagnosis, even a provisional one. Medicine is not known for short simple names of the diseases it classifies. If Sherlock needs to answer a doctor or a nurse out loud, we're in big trouble. There's no way he can get away with this farce, given his current broken up speech.

_Today I'm Sherlock's protector, in quite a different way from ordinary. Usually I provide muscle (or a trigger-happy finger). Today I need to be his voice._

All the while I'm fighting my own distractions here at the A&amp;E. I'm needed here, I could be useful here, even if I'm not working my hours. The sight and sound of patients everywhere is a siren call for me to get to work; and I can't.

I mustn't let Sherlock notice how distracted (and conflicted) I feel. He'd remind me I can't save everyone. Maybe even tell me it's hypocritical to want to save everyone when I'm at the hospital and forget all about it back at 221B. If I can't switch off being a doctor, then I shouldn't exit the hospital. _I think deep inside he's not as cold as his words._ Like with himself, he wishes he had the ability of disconnecting from work and find true peace of mind in the short intervals before returning to his call. _Oh, Sherlock... life is not that rational._

'John?'

Sherlock can't help but notice my abstraction. If again he was reading my mind, he won't say, but somehow this time he allows me some privacy.

'Are you ready, Sherlock?'

His strong gaze is locked on mine, the colour in his green eyes is brought forward by his outfit. Tall, muscled but lean. He could be the star in some television series on doctors and medical dramas. With his long violinist fingers so dextrous and precise he could fit the role of a surgeon today. So, no clipboard and pens for my friend. Just plain indolence and attitude for a man who saves lives in sterile conditions. 'Here', I push my badge against his chest to wake him from his own abstraction, 'keep hold of this in case we get separated and you need to get out fast. I'll find myself another way to leave.'

'After a ten hours shift?' he feigns innocence. _Damn, he really has read my mind._

'No, you can wait outside, Sherlock. I won't be long after you if you leave... Also', I start, then wonder if I'm preaching to the right audience here, 'the A&amp;E can be a bit... rough. There's trauma, blood, and the occasional scream. Patients are in pain, hurt, confused, scared. It's... not a desk job.'

'I'm used to bloody corpses, John.'

'Yeah, well, when they're alive it can be harder...' I warn him.

'Need to push... feels... away?' he smirks as he tilts his head. Telling me he can do this, it's where both our chosen professions come together; the need to refrain from emotion when elbows deep in it.

I nod at last. If there's anyone ready for the occasional gruesome aspects of an A&amp;E it'd be Sherlock Holmes.

'Let's go', I state and turn at once.

'Wait!' Sherlock grabs me by my wrist to stop me.

'What?' I frown, looking over my shoulder.

'Stay close', he tells me, enigmatic.

'I will', I vow, regardless.

_**.**_

Sherlock and I separate strategically as I came closer to the head-nurse's station, trying to access information. 'Doctor John H. Watson, ID 10341253. Head-nurse, I need to know the status of a patient brought in yesterday by the Scotland Yard, C. Chandler.'

The head-nurse looks up at me in surprise at the unusual request. Luckily she doesn't appear to be the imaginative type. She decides to comply without further questioning. 'Yes, admitted yesterday. Not stable yet, doctor. I'll print out a copy of his report for you.'

I suddenly sense a presence by my side and it amazes me to recognise my friend. _I guess he was too curious to wait._ With his most innocent expression he stands by my side, maybe even a bit too close.

'I don't think I've seen you before', the head-nurse notices Sherlock.

My friend is looming even closer now. Always a touch too close, as it has become a custom between us when one of us feels more vulnerable.

The silence stretches by my side, and it takes me a couple of seconds to realise why Sherlock isn't naming himself.

Hell, or even using one of Lestrade's ID badges and playing cop (acquired when Lestrade was being annoying again).

"_Consulting detective", "Scotland" Yard – they're too complicated words at the moment. Maybe even "Lestrade" and "Sherlock" as far as I can tell._

_But why not play doctor like we agreed?_

'Doctor Holmes', he finally says, past his clumsy shyness of earlier. In fact, he now sports an overconfident posture and an award winning smile for the head-nurse. Somehow, she blushes and demands no verification of his identification.

Red-faced, she concentrates on her job and my query. I follow her dextrous typing on the computer's keyboard with anxious relief. Just as she hits the buttons ordering it to print, a strong commotion erupts behind us.

_Even before I turn I'm suspecting Sherlock did it._

_The bastard._

It doesn't help that I see him snatch the printed piece of paper at the corner of my eye – _he wasn't being awkward, he was timing his theft carefully_ – just before I rush over to a blue-faced man, grabbing on to his chest, clearly in distress. The machine he's been hooked up to is beeping wildly as all the signs of panic and anoxia are setting. I'm immediately upon the patient and a fast glance around tells me all the other doctors are swamped in dire cases too. I guess it's up to me; this has turned out as a working day after all.

Sherlock and the head-nurse followed me. I snatch a small light torch pen from my friend's pocket (I guess he used his break away from me for a exercise in kleptomania, for his pocket is full of pens and such; trying to better look the part or plain insecurity?). The man's pupils are responsive but slower than they should be. I need to check his airways for possible blockages. Time is ticking and I first grab the patient's chart. He clearly hasn't been admitted with this difficulty breathing, something must have triggered it. An allergic reaction to an environmental component or a medication? He's not on medication at the moment, only being supervised for nausea, generalised pain and other flu-like symptoms. Nothing that would justify the struggling breathing or the purple lips. I manoeuvre his head backwards and insert two fingers on his mouth to clear the airways the most I can. Oh, that's weird...

'Nurse, get me an emergency tracheotomy tray. This man has purposely ingested a foreign object that has become lodged in his airways.' I raise an eyelid again and smirk at the traces of petechial haemorrhage from previous chocking. The picture becomes clearer. This man came to the A&amp;E under false pretence, to swallow a button or a coin, suffocate, and get the attention he pathologically craves. Now I need to save his life, damn it. And the foreign object is lodged too far down to grasp or extract with tweezers.

Delicate steady fingers slide the scalpel along the base of the neck, over the trachea. The local anaesthetic has helped the patient stop struggling and the red line on his skin appears smooth and just deep enough. 'Tube', I demand to a bewildered nurse. Instead, it's Sherlock who hands me the tube. I insert it with years of training and secure it to place with tape. Immediately the man's gaze focuses and his breathing restarts as it bypasses the blockage, strewn in deep gulps, becoming more even soon enough. His colour is getting better before our eyes.

I take possession of another of Sherlock's purloined pens from his breast pocket and make hasty notes on the patient's chart. 'He'll need surgery to remove an embedded object from his throat, then admit him to a room under suicide watch for the next 48 hours', I declare, for safeguarding. I don't think the patient is dangerous to himself – not that much, at least. I think he has a strange compulsion to swallow things that are not edible. Luckily he has some self-preservation and chose to do it at an A&amp;E.

The nurse walks off to arrange for a surgeon. The patient is peacefully sedated so he won't scratch out the breathing tube. Looking down on my bloodied gloves as I take them off, I can feel the adrenaline flowing in my veins being replaced with exhaustion. _It's another life saved, but for how long?_ Before I know it, I'm being softly urged to walk away by Sherlock, still standing close. Knowing the patient will be carefully monitored, I sigh and finally accept to leave with Sherlock.

'Sorry, Sherlock? I got distracted. You got the paper, right? Did you read it? Do we need to stay?'

He shakes his head slowly, as we both cross the corridors. Something within me feels like I'm walking in a dream-like state. Don't know why. I've only been a doctor. It's what I do. I didn't expect, or mentally prepare, to be hands deep in someone's blood but no matter the shock, this is still what I've been trained to do. So what is nagging me?

Again I find myself adjusting my watches' wristband.

'...Sherlock, where were you when the patient swallowed a foreign object?'

The consulting detective won't look me in the eye. 'Excuse me?' he acts like he didn't understand.

'Sherlock!' I _deduce_.

'He was going to do that. I saw the signs, John. Just like you did. I saw before he did it. I was sure it was best if he ate the silver locket with a good doctor nearby.'

I don't know if Sherlock trained his mono and disyllabic answer beforehand or if he just performs better under pressure.

'You knew he was going to self-harm and you let him?' I could scream at Sherlock. Given that we are back at the changing room, I mustn't; it still comes out hissed. 'Sherlock!'

'I told him to do it. Better with you around. Gave him the best chances. You are the best doctor around, John.'

No matter his child-like faith in my skills, I'm furious with my friend.

Nevertheless I can't help retracing: 'Silver locket?'

'Ex-wife. Really sad. For him. Not for me. I like seeing you do your job. Very good, John.'

I grunt in response, hoping for patience as a saving grace.

At least Sherlock got his info, in a nice printed sheet of paper, and he can now turn his full attention back on the case.

_And I'll never, ever again, let Sherlock Holmes loose in an A&amp;E._

In a not quite so decent way, at least Sherlock's mood has become much improved.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	149. Chapter 149

_(A/N) __Premise__: "Long sentences and complicated words don't make you intelligent, Sherlock" –John._

_-csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part 6 .**_

We're at the back of a cab when Sherlock finally allows me to see the patient's chart that we got from our little stroll into the A&amp;E. The second victim's state is still critical and, if I'm going to be honest as a doctor, it doesn't look good. Time will tell if he reacts positively to the current medication. It's further down the page that I find what has sent my silent friend into an abstraction fit. The blood analysis reveals abundant traces of an uncommon chemical compound, either our designer drug still present in the patient's body, or the product of its partial degradation. Either way, the fact that it's still present in the analysis seems to prove that it's still acting upon the body where it's lodged, despite all the medical team's efforts, and it's still destroying it, inch by inch.

_It's another tragedy in the making._

'Where are we off to now?' I ask Sherlock.

'Morgue', he tells me laconically.

'Molly Hooper', I recognise. He nods.

'She needs to see that, John.'

I frown in suspicion. 'Sherlock, did you solve the case already?'

'Don't know yet', he confesses. Then he refuses to share any more.

_**.**_

White florescent lights and the mixed smell of formaldehyde-based chemicals and disinfectant greet us as we make our way into the morgue. The long white corridor bears sticking resemblance with the hospital we just left behind, yet it contrasts as much in its eerily stillness. There's no rush here, no sense of urgency; not in the same manner, at least. I'm sure Molly and the rest of her team have deadlines to abide by. However, what they do in their work can now only seal the fate of the living, outside the morgue. It does not change the outcome of the ones lying on the cold steel slabs, surrounded by doctors who cannot give back life.

I catch myself glancing down on my wristwatch. _Damn it, Sherlock was right._

_Sherlock is almost always right._

'That's Molly's room', I recognise as Sherlock veers towards one specific autopsy room.

'I told Greg to give the body to Molly.'

'I don't think DI Lestrade can choose the pathologist in charge, Sherlock.'

He shrugs. Apparently Greg found a way to pass the body in the bag to doctor Molly Hooper after all.

'Maybe you should let me explain to Molly first.'

My friend looks puzzled, not following. Has he seriously forgotten his head injury and speech impairment at the first sniff of an interesting twist to this case?

I point to my temple, mirroring the place where he sports a very dark bruise.

'Oh', he seems taken back. 'She won't tell', he then defends this theory where Molly won't be able to tell something is off.

It's so rare, nowadays, that Sherlock still sells Molly short of her dues. She's bright, clever and insightful. And one tough cookie when it comes down to it. Her awkward shyness is a front cover on so much more than Sherlock first gave her credit for. Over the years, his trust on her grew till the point of full synergy. She was, after all, one of the few chosen ones to be in on the Reichenbach's plans.

_She has become more trustworthy than me._

I don't resent her for that. _Not anymore._ I'm glad Sherlock has found himself such good friends.

_But if she ever spends another two years not telling me their secret..._

_I've spoken to Molly several times since Sherlock's comeback, and I've become convinced she doesn't want to guard such a secret again. It's taken a toll. I'm convinced she doesn't want to do it ever again. I'm just not convinced she would refuse to do so for Sherlock. After all, she did it all for a good cause. Like I say, she's a tough cookie._

_I just hope Sherlock isn't the catalyst of a second Reichenbach ever again._

_I don't think I'm as tough as Molly; I don't think I could go through it all again._

'John?'

I resurface to the present time and space with the vague notion that Sherlock has called me before. He has stopped short at the autopsy room's start, waiting for his friend, standing at the doorway.

_I hope Sherlock wasn't mindreading me again._

'Yes. Corpse. Report. Molly, right', I mutter in a tight-knit succession.

'If you prefer to wait out there...' Sherlock starts from within the room. _Of all the times he could have chosen to be considerate..._

'I'm fine', I hastily announce, stepping in.

_What is wrong with me? This is about Sherlock, and I need to be there for him. Why am I so distracted?_

_Seeing Sherlock being less than his steady strong self is affecting me in ways I didn't predict. It's as if I'm missing his strength and drive. It gives meaning to my own._

_For Sherlock, I can refocus and be there for him._

_The way he's insightfully attentive to me as well, despite his own circumstances._

'Hi, Molly, have you been doing okay?' I ask, with a polite smile.

As I expected, I couldn't quite distract her from zooming in on Sherlock and his visible bruise. She immediately cares:

'Oh, Sherlock! what happened?' She approaches him, snapping off each latex glove before taking a shy but decided touch to his left brow, over which the vast purplish bruise has settled. 'The zygomatic arch seems intact. I trust John has had a look at this?' she inquires, with a no-nonsense voice. Sherlock nods quietly, waiting for the end of her inspection. Knowing, most probably, that she needs to go through it herself before letting go. Which she does eventually, after making him follow her moving finger with his eyes. 'Sherlock, you should be resting.'

He has the decency of looking ashamed and bowing his head to her comment. _Not like he paid the least attention when I told him that._

_This is another aspect of their friendship that has a different set of rules from the one I have with Sherlock. Like two kids, we break common sense laws all the time._

'I came here for a case, Molly', Sherlock smartens up as he tells her.

'I figured as much', she says. Both acknowledging knowingly and scolding him for only showing up when it's about the cases. 'DI Lestrade's designer drug's case?' she ventures on.

'Yes... Tox screen?'

She hides a smirk and rolls her eyes. 'You know, it wouldn't hurt you to chat a little. But, yes, I've got the tox screen report.'

'Swap you.'

Molly is fast to pick up on his meaning. 'I heard a new type of recreational drug is involved.'

'What do you think of it?'

'They paid too much', she deadpans. 'What have you brought me, Sherlock?'

Is she blushing? _No, Molly, it's not flowers or chocolates. Damn it, Sherlock, stop toying with her heart!_

'Alive guy's blood screen. John doesn't think he'll make it.'

I cut in: 'I didn't say that!'

'Not out loud... Molly?'

They swap papers with Molly's blushing subsiding fast. I keep my eyes strained on my maniac friend, speedily glancing through the report with accustomed eyes.

'_Thought so...'_ I think I can hear him mutter. 'Let's go, John!' he decides, frantic.

_Oh, so soon?_

Molly clears her throat meaningfully. Sherlock faces her with the most innocent straightforward expression before he catches on. He hands her back the report and sends me a doubtful look. 'Hurry up, John!'

Sherlock may have been shy o this short-words speech thing, but he's just mastered the art.

As we hastily leave Molly behind, I'm stunned to realise we've just pulled the deception of the century. Molly actually missed Sherlock's uncustomary speech pattern.

Well, that just goes to say I was right; _it's not that noticeable, Sherlock!_

_**.**_

Our next logical step becomes the Scotland Yard. More specifically, the office of our patient friend, DI Lestrade.

Sherlock is so sure he got this case solved that he storms the DI's office with vivacious energy and rallies up a reaction at once.

'Sherlock, what are you doing here? You should be resting, for crying out loud! John, why don't you tell him he needs to rest?'

I flash him an apologetic face. 'Been doing little else. You know Sherlock, when he's got his mind on a case, he needs to see it through. In fact, I wouldn't be too surprised if he's already solved it.'

Lestrade's expression falls at once. 'The drugs case from yesterday?' I nod. 'I've got my best agents on the field and they haven't unearthed anything yet, John.' I tilt my head, he reads it easily. 'Yes, this is Sherlock we're talking about... Sherlock, care to share with us?'

Our friend has moved to face the window behind Greg's desk, surveying the city bustling bellow.

'Not a genius move, L–... Greg.'

'Go on, Sherlock, spit it out', Greg coaches him.

'I know the... the... lab guy who did this.'

'Are you saying the drug was synthesised in a real laboratory?' He shakes his head, frustration mounting. That was not the important part of what he was trying to say.

It doesn't help that I haven't read his deduction yet, nor is he giving out any leads for me to do so, and now sergeant Donovan has come into the room. By her expression I can tell she has sniffed Sherlock's case solving from afar.

'Holmes. Watson.' She greets us coldly. Not even Sherlock's recent misfortune has mellowed her attitude towards the consulting detective.

'Sherlock was just telling us the solution to the drugs case, Donovan.'

She crosses her arms in front of her and dares at once: 'Can't wait to hear this one...' In her tone of voice, the "freak" at the end is implied. I step in at once to defend Sherlock but he starts again before I can actually say anything:

'I know the guy, Greg.' That was the previous bottom-line.

'Oi, it's "detective inspector Lestrade" to you, Holmes!' Again he gets interrupted by the sergeant.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at her. Proper hierarchical naming of authority figures was never his thing anyway.

'I said I know the guy.' Sherlock tells Greg with his eyes locked on his.

Sally interrupts again. 'The victim? Was he one of those bums you keep around the city? They speak highly of you, but one can hardly consider what you do for them charitable, Holmes.'

She means how Sherlock Holmes has made friends with a network of homeless people across the city. The majority a group of hermits isolated from society by their own choice. Proudly misfit, surviving along parallel to society rules and taking advantage of what the mainstream society has disposed off: food, clothes, abandoned buildings and structures. Some of these men and women I've come to meet along my years by Sherlock's side. They are part time informants, spies and messengers to Sherlock. A bunch of outcasts that decidedly want to remain so; anonymous by choice and forgotten by society.

'Not my people, no', Sherlock states laconically under the cover of his rocky professional relationship with the sergeant. 'I mean the dealer.'

Sally's glee turns an ugly shade of despicable triumph as Sherlock opens the door to allude to his less than honourable contacts.

'Tried any of his stuff lately?' she sneers. 'You don't look very much like yourself. I think you did.'

This would be the time Sherlock would snap a below the belt comment on Sally – and that would hardly solve a thing – but not when he's struggling so much to string together a sentence...

'DI Lestrade', I cut in, 'perhaps we could talk this case through _privately_?'

Sally interjects: 'Why? Is the freak about to incriminate himself when he explains how he knows where the drug comes from?'

I send her way a loathing soul-shattering look that promises what my clenched fists are itching to get going. Before Greg Lestrade can come between us, we are all startled as Sherlock walks by us, mute and resolute, storming out of Greg's office without any effort to defend himself.

_Shit._ I try to follow my friend, hastily, but Sherlock is the best at vanishing into thin air when he feels like it. No matter how hard I try, I can't find him again at the Yard.

Greg Lestrade joins my efforts a little later, looking guilty. 'Look, John, I'm sorry.'

'You can say that to Sherlock.'

'I didn't think he would take it like that. He's usually got a thick skin.'

I send a warning glare at Greg. I'm so frustrated I let this happen under my watch that I could fly off the handle with Greg too.

'He's your _friend_, Greg.'

'This is my _job_, John', he lets me know how divided he can get.

I sigh, exasperated. 'What will we do, Greg? What will we do now...'

Sherlock's gone off, possibly to get himself into trouble, before he could communicate with us his deductions.

_**.**_

I don't have Sherlock's inner city network of contacts. Can't flash a text to all of them requiring their help finding my friend (before he does something stupid) either. Don't have their contacts and they'd naturally distrust me as much as they do any other former member of an authority force. Being retired from the army and all. Sherlock never told me they'd have trouble with me. But I could foresee. A few times Sherlock called me over to dark alleys and dingy underground parking lots, telling me only two things: "I'm fine" and "bring your medic bag". An old lady, two young men and a young woman; all in need of different assistance. They each tensed up when they saw me, my chequered shirt a contrast to their dirty fingernails. Sherlock asked me to keep silent. I did. Throughout my best possible treatment of wounds, broken bones and infections, even at the least capable places to perform well my job. I didn't ask them why they didn't go to a hospital instead. I know most of them are on the run from the system and all of them want to remain untraceable. Gave them treatment, antibiotics, painkillers and even vitamins. Never knew if they stuck with the medical plan. Having their trust while I was by their side was due to Sherlock's incredible persuasion as it was.

Today, as I search for my upset friend, and recall his beautiful giving nature, I hope to find a familiar face and beg for their cooperation.

It's only me to scour the city. I'm roaming these familiar streets with the feeling that I'm not enough.

_But I won't give up._

Sally Donovan pushed Sherlock's buttons till it was too much. Feeling vulnerable and frail, he couldn't withstand more of the vicious attack and left. _Why didn't I stop her sooner? _In his rebellious mood, he might have discarded all precaution; that's my biggest fear. Greg and I have barely held off Sherlock yesterday at the crime scene, when he wanted to infiltrate the drug dealer's ring in order to bring him to justice. That would be too much of a vulnerable stance for my friend, who knows about drugs only too well. I'm afraid Sally has unknowingly pushed Sherlock into his rash plan_ and I didn't manage to stop her._

It's my plan to search every alley and side road. Every derelict building and under each bridge. Find anyone who can point me to my elusive friend before he does something stupid. I need to talk to Sherlock. If there ever was a "danger night" as his brother likes to call them, this must be it.

_His brother... _Mycroft Holmes. Is this seriously the time come to admit defeat and beg for his influence? Maybe Mycroft can find Sherlock, but then I'll lose Sherlock's trust forever. He'll never forgive me if I call Mycroft. This may effectively be enabling Sherlock in his madness, but I can't tell Mycroft. I really can't. _Sherlock trusts me._

"Speaking of the devil", they say. My phone is ringing with Mycroft Holmes' annoying ringtone (I programmed my phone that way). I know from experience that Mycroft never leaves a voice mail, and he also never gives up till I pick up the call.

I'm walking this dingy alley blaring to the sound of my phone ringing; so much for being inconspicuous.

_I can't take the sound off, Mycroft tempered with my phone somehow. Both Holmes brothers think they're so damn clever!_

'Yes!' I shout at the phone upon taking the call.

"John", a perfectly reasonable voice greets me from the other side.

'Mycroft.'

"Yes, we seem to know each other's birth names..." I roll my eyes at no-one. "I also know where you are right now, John."

'Well, that's one up on me.'

"Is there a particular reason you're strolling on a back alley, John?"

'Came for some fresh air.'

"I highly doubt the air in there is all that fresh."

'Made a wrong turn, then.'

"I'd say so. That alley is in an area known for illegal chemical dealings."

'Drugs, they're called drugs, Mycroft. I'm not Sherlock. You can't piss me off with big words.'

"I hope I haven't made you uncomfortable with my choice of words."

'Not at all. I'm a doctor, I don't consider myself stupid.'

"No, you don't, do you?" His over-polite tone is stretching my patient thin. Finally he asks me what he really wants to get out of me: "Where's Sherlock, John?"

'Probably at Baker Street. He really needs to rest. He just got out of hospital.'

"I thought he might have got himself into... trouble."

'Because I'm in a bad part of the city? Are your cameras fogged up? Maybe you can't see well through the lenses. Sherlock is not here with me, Mycroft.'

"You're a loyal man, John", he admits easily, with little emotion. "If you need my help, please remember you know where to find me."

'Hm, alright.'

"Is that all?"

'I don't know; _you_ called _me_, Mycroft.'

"Loyal, indeed", he sniggers with what must have been one of his dead smiles. "I'll be seeing you, John."

'Yeah. I don't doubt that.' I disconnect the call with full notion that I'm still being watched through the cctv cameras feed.

_**.**_

Mycroft's meddling forced my hand and I had to give up my search of Sherlock in London's hideouts. Worried sick, I went back to 221B, decided not to leave it until I heard from my friend again, no matter how long it took.

As I come through the kitchen door I see a dirty plate with leftover food on the table, then I notice the living room's softer lights are on.

'Sherlock?' I call, hopeful for his return. I rush to the living room to find him sitting immobile (and sulking, perhaps) in his armchair. 'Sherlock, where have you been? You had me worried sick! Why did you disappear from the Yard like that? Why didn't you take my calls?'

My friend lowers his gaze but otherwise remains silent. I insist: Sherlock, I know you can talk, don't give me crap! I'm your friend and I was worried!'

His mask of impassibility breaks just now. 'Not friends', he tells me urgently, leaning towards me.

I can feel myself go pale. _What did I do now? How have I hurt my emotionally vulnerable friend this time?_

My shoulders sag and my throat dries. 'What did I do wrong? Sherlock, I'm sorry. I thought returning to work was a good idea for you and—'

'Me.'

'What?' _I don't get it._

Sherlock purses his lips before detailing: 'Not you. Me.'

'I don't get it, Sherlock.'

'I'm not... well.' His gaze carefully avoids me then bravely returns. 'We can't be friends now. I'm like this. I have... troubles. No one wants to be friends like this. I'm not clever. Not now. I'm... normal. It's bad. It's... more than bad. I'm not special. I'm just _normal_.'

I almost giggle, relieved. He looks shocked by my genuine reaction. 'Sherlock, I'll always be your friend. I'm your friend because of who you are, not how clever you sound. It bears no relevance to me how many fancy words you can spell out, okay?'

Suddenly he looks more agitated, a flash of happiness fleeting past his features, but it's not what I said. I can tell. 'John, it's not nice. I'm not brill-i-ant right now. What can you see in me? How can you be my friend?'

I'm smiling honestly. 'You're just as brilliant as ever, from what I can see. So you can't say some words, but you can break them apart? Sherlock, that's fantastic!'

He finally copies my smile with his own coy smile that rights so authentic. I know I finally got through to him, a weight has been lifted from his expression. The image of the extraordinary detective has never changed in my mind. He should know it couldn't ever change, no matter what.

'You gave me the idea', he gives back. 'With what you said. You are... light, John.'

_A conductor of light_, yes, I heard that one before and it never failed to make me feel special.

_He knows "brill" is slang for "brilliant" anyway, and not just a type of fish, right? I'll keep that one to myself. I'm not making Sherlock's recovery go slack from too much help. He's on the right track, and he's being brilliant._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	150. Chapter 150

_(A/N) __Premise__: "Long sentences and complicated words don't make you intelligent, Sherlock" –John._

_Side-note: French lessons were a long time ago and my French is no longer up to scratch (not sure it ever was). My Portuguese, however, I can vouch for. Translations are, as always, unimportant plot-wise and at the bottom._

_Oh, silly me. Haven't written the ending yet. It's certain to be on the next one. Thanks for the patience. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part 7 .**_

'Oh. It's Greg.' I recognise the sudden footsteps marching up 221's stairs excitedly. 'I'll get some more tea going', I add, as a natural response.

'No need', Sherlock stops me. 'I called him.'

'He can still have some tea', I protest sensibly, before realising: 'Wait, does that mean you have solved the case?' Dropping the kettle back to its place I start approaching Sherlock. Heavens forbid he tells me he solved the case yesterday and was waiting for new developments because it _needed_ to be more exciting for him to do anything about it. _That was just once, a long time ago, we had just recently moved in to 221B. We talked about it._

Sherlock shrugs as the sort of answer I can only call enigmatic. 'I know where the drug was made', he tells me in his simple-words-only speech. 'I also know the one behind it was out of... the UK. Not making drugs since.'

'Sherlock, you should have told us that! This is not just about finding the culprit and designer drugs copyrights! One kid died and another is fighting for his life. Meanwhile, there are more people out there who are taking these filthy things and dying of it!' I desperately try to regain some control. Shaking my head I must remember: 'My god, they were just kids. Someone needs to be stopped. Who is this person?'

Somehow I've blindingly walked till I found myself in the middle of the living room, arguing with an infuriatingly cool-tempered, collected Sherlock Holmes. Behind me, Greg Lestrade emerges at the door. He's sure to have heard my words and at least a portion of the one sided argument.

'Having a little domestic?' Greg jokes lightly, when I glance over my shoulder.

'John', Sherlock reproaches me darkly, calling back my attention. 'My major is in Chem.' He adds a significant look. _Chemistry, yes; anyone could tell that from your kitchen laboratory._

'What do you mean, Sherlock?'

'Cheap drug. Cheap reactants.'

_Well, he can say "reactants", but not "chemistry" or even "yesterday"._

'I don't get it, Sherlock.'

'Cheap to make. Hard to do.'

'Do you mean technically?' I squint.

He nods.

'Lots of time too, John', he adds another difficulty to the process.

I follow Sherlock's gaze to our kitchen. It hasn't quite left it since we started this argument. _I shiver._

'You tried to produce a copy of the drug?' He nods at once. I could grab him by the shoulders and shake him hard. _I might still do._

'When? I ask. A feeling of terror creeping in.

'Night. Couldn't sleep.'

Drugs at 221B are never a good thing, especially not during Sherlock's recent life's up and downs. I feel my knees falter.

'Where?' I demand to know in a thunderous voice. I'm growing as laconic as my friend. My state comes from shock, though.

'Oven. Drying.' I can see him struggle to explain complex chemistry concepts with the simplest words.

_Crystallizing_, I suspect he means.

Even though I should stand still in the middle of the living room, I can sense Greg hurrying towards the kitchen and searching for the hazardous substance. _"It's a drug's bust."_ Only it's not. It never was.

'Why didn't you tell us before?' I must ask.

He shrugs. 'Not ready.' _Not a temptation. Not a case solution. Not something John Watson would be happy with. _'I'm clean', he adds meaningfully. _I know, Sherlock._

I run trembling fingers through my short hair, slightly grasping and pulling at them, out of despair. 'Sherlock, you know this was dangerous. No case can be worth this much.'

'People are dying.'

I stop short at his statement, taken by surprise. _Sociopath he's not. _Unless he's trying to manipulate me, and Greg, right now. But I know he isn't. He really cares, of course he cares! That's why he's right. Maybe it did justify the risk. There was work to be done, and work is Sherlock's primary drug of choice. The case put him so close to harm's way, yet it also gave him a good reason to keep focus.

There's a sickening twist at my gut and it comes from having been so blind all along. I tried to help Sherlock keep himself distracted (of his recent injuries, of the addiction aspects of this case, of Sally Donovan's mood swings). I stayed at Baker Street with the mission of being a translator and a friend. Then, as soon as I needed some sleep, Sherlock went behind my back, case-solving in a dubiously moral way. I'll never know how close has Sherlock come to making a stupid mistake.

'I wouldn't', he answers out loud my deepest fears. 'I had you, John', he adds with child-like simplicity, full of faith.

_Does he mean I was keeping an eye out, or does he mean I helped keeping him on the right track?_

Greg Lestrade has been keeping himself perfectly still, squatted in front of the kitchen oven. He's been staring at its contents through the glass door. The inspector looks slightly bewildered. Sherlock sometimes uses the oven's lower settings to dry and develop crystals of a variety of poisonous substances, so I'm not really surprised.

Greg should really have seen it coming, with what he knows of Sherlock's usage of the microwave (_eye_ _balls_), the veggie drawer in the fridge (_thumbs_), and what he might suspect Sherlock's done to our previous kettle (_unmentionable_)...

'How do you know you got it right, Sherlock?' Greg asks the genius, gathering his wits.

'I saw the blood tests Molly ran.'

'Some of the original drug must already have been metabolised in the guy's system before he died', Greg points out. 'You can't tell which of the substances found in his blood is the actual drug and which are derived from it.'

'And from the blood test on the one that is still alive. That reaction took its course. Then I knew the drug. I just had to think back on how you make it.'

'So, it's that easy? In a shabby kitchen in London?' the inspector protests.

Sherlock shakes his head in earnest. 'Please! It helps that I'm a genius.' Sherlock's old arrogance makes a full-pledged comeback.

'So, you never planned on trying this out?' Greg asks him, point blank, pointing at the rusty oven.

'One person has died!' Sherlock rolls his eyes.

'Okay, fair enough. Now what will you do with it?' Greg insists, still pointing at the oven contents.

'Destroy it. But not yet. First we are going to sell it.' He smiles wickedly and adds the important bit. 'Sell it to the person who made this up.' _The person who invented the drug, and then distributed it._

'What?' Greg immediately straightens up.

'He's clever, Greg', Sherlock admits with some appreciation. 'He'll never admit he made it up. Not to us, and not to a fake client. Pride, that's the way to get to him. He'll defend his... baby, so to speak. When I come up with the same thing and show him.'

'Sherlock, that is not a good idea...' the older man starts, doubtfully.

'No. It's a great idea', Sherlock insists with a genius smile, stubbornly. 'John can come with me. You can stay on the street when we go in.'

'Sherlock, don't you tell me you've already thought this through...' Greg warns, exasperated.

'Okay, I won't', Sherlock replies at once, looking all innocent. Then he turns back to the living room where he's left me, shell-shocked, and finally faces me. _I have no words._ Greg looks from Sherlock to me, then tries to say something, and fails. _I'm not the only one, then._

_Yes. It would seem we have ourselves a Sherlock-plan._

"_It could be dangerous."_

_**.**_

'How do you know about this place, Sherlock?' I ask my friend, almost reverentially, as Lestrade's police car stops by a closed rundown industrial building. The place blends in London's outskirts, at an old industrial area, full of similar small-sized, brick constructions. Boarded-up to keep trespassers away and sprayed on the front with several layers of old urban art works, there's no obvious sign of recent usage.

'It's my job to know this city well', Sherlock answers, modestly.

'Yes, but—'

'My brother helped', the detective confesses with a sigh. 'We check the power meters. There has been new usage when the place has been closed for years.'

'Oh, right. Electricity bills', I understand. 'Did you both conspire to sleuth fraternally in Portuguese?' I smirk, as I try to wind Sherlock up after a particularly complicated patch of speech for my friend.

'Yes', he just agrees naturally. Greg looks at us sideways. 'Trouble?' Sherlock asks us both.

I shrug. 'Always put you two down for a posh accented French, to be honest. Or maybe even a dead language, like Latin.' I smirk.

Sherlock approaches the suggestion rationally. 'Latin doesn't have the words we need today, John.'

'Oh, right, yeah.' True.

'J'avais pas besoin de parler Français depuis mon départ de la maison de ma grand-mère.*'

'What?' _That's unfair, Sherlock!_ That French was too fast and too good. 'Hm... Très vite et... hm...'

He sniggers at my efforts, looking very amused that I took the bait. Well, it was only fair! Greg just shakes his head at me and directs: 'Allons-y!**'

Oh, they're getting out of the car. Seems that it's time to go...

Only, it gets me thinking about Greg's surname... Am I the only here without French ancestors?

_**.**_

The old facility is comprised of a long open area with only a few windows high up on the side walls, and a more reclusive separate space that must have once been a manager's office. Old sheets of newspaper have been plastered onto the front windows for privacy, masking the exterior under the cover of frail sepia coloured paper. Permeating through from the dark evening outside the lamplights electric glow throws amber pools of light, hardly enough to make out the contents in the open area.

I take a moment or two to let my eyes grow accustomed to the semi-darkness before I start making sense of the odd angles and lines within. Among the geometrical straight lines of solid crates and boxes stacked up, there are these more sinuous of static human shapes. Mannequins, immobile and eerie in their life-like suspension. Probably old clothes' store figurines, spread out evenly across the open space as a silent plaster army. I find myself leaning towards the closest one in curiosity. The amber light coming in from the window highlights a gentle shoulder line, all the way down the slender figure's naked arm down to an elongated finger, stretched out towards me. As if gently calling for my attention. A vacant empty expression painted on the mannequin's face is doll-like and soulless. There's another figure just behind it, posed as if shyly looking away from our interaction, and it's unnatural and contrived. They are silent stances among rows and rows of nameless others, in a collective theatrical exhibition of a summoned lifestyle that has never really existed, that has always been just make-belief.

_It's both mesmerising me and giving me the creeps._

_And wholly detached from our case._

I glance around me, looking for the one real figure that should be present in the room, but I can't seem to find Sherlock. He's gone on another one of his little vanishing acts. Probably walked off, unimpressed with these ghostly frozen figurines and rolling his eyes at my reaction. _Yes, the rational genius would be sure to do that._

As for me, I just let myself pace around the space, meandering further into this silent, not frightening but somewhat off-putting, army of human-like figures. It's dramatically eerie, carefully composed, drastically contrived, and strangely detached in such a secluded and remote space. Respectfully, I take a careful hand to the faithful Browning tucked away in my belt, appreciative of its presence by my side.

'Sherlock?' I ask out loud, in a response to a small sound up ahead.

Where did my mad friend go? I circle on a tight spot to check enemy ground. Some hidden danger feeling is playing havoc with my instincts.

The forcefully laconic detective has taken a shine to disappearing on his blogger, and has left me behind for the second time in a matter of hours, with no heads-up; this time surrounded by a hostile army of non-breathing mannequins, _all annoyingly taller than me._

'Sherlock!' I call again. No answer. I briefly entertain an eye roll, shared with all my new plaster friends.

Shouldn't be surprised. It's hardly the first time I'm left behind on enemy ground by a sulky detective. Probably he has figured out that this place is not half as interesting as promised by his brother. Who knows if he hasn't already sauntered off to a new location, acting all casual when I finally catch up with him, and giving me no justification whatsoever.

Yes, he still does that once in a while, but he's much more considerate nowadays. It's just that Sherlock has this brilliant mind that races faster than his common sense.

But Greg is outside. He wouldn't forget me as well. So Sherlock must still be around, possibly too enthralled in the study of this place to bother answering me. Yes, he does that too. Always has.

In fact, I'm curious as well. The mannequins divert attention from the crates laying around, piled up in stacks of three and four, towering above my head. _Common theme here; everything seems to be taller than me._

With one last superstitious glance around me, and a fast cough to clear the throat, I lower my gun back to my belt. Then I reach out to the top crate closest to me. Heavy, but not impossible to lift and hold for a man with strong built. A little less than gracefully, I manage to lower the box to the floor for easier access. Lamenting the absence of my field army knife I resort to clawing the box open with my bare hands. Slowly it's giving way.

Before I can properly see inside the box, a heavy blow hits my head from behind. As I fall, stunned, over the crate, I wonder fleetingly how I missed this intruder's approach. Immediately the pain in my head multiplies exponentially in a single instant, as my vision blurs in a sickening explosion of lights and colours. Mostly reds and oranges, then blacks and nothingness. Swallowing my every sense as the lights fade and I helplessly roll from the crate to the floor. Fallen among the silent army of life-sized figurines.

'Sherlock...'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_

_Translations:_

_* 'I've had no need to speak French since I left my grandmother's house.' __[Or, at least, this was what I was going for. I believe a French maternal grandmother was mentioned in the Arthur Conan Doyle literary works, and I'm sure it's mentioned in Jeremy Brett's Victorian Sherlock Holmes series and movies. Sherlock is just so much of a big nasty child sometimes, giving John the family background information John would love to know in a language John can't really access, turning the tables on his own speech difficulties. There you go, John, next time don't wind him up!]_

_** 'Let's go!'_


	151. Chapter 151

_(A/N) __Premise__: "Long sentences and complicated words don't make you intelligent, Sherlock" –John._

_Sorry for the time elapsed since the last update. Lately I've been full of beginnings and no endings. _

_As always, translations are at the very end. Final portion. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** Part 8 .**_

'John? You should be awake by now. Will you wake up already?'

Light painfully assaults my eyes as I slit them open, so I resign myself to closing them again, letting my eyelids drop gratefully. I'm slumped on the dirty floor of the warehouse; one extra still figurine among all the erect standing plaster ones. Immediately I start nodding off again.

'John, you need to keep awake. Focus on my voice. Hear me. I'll talk, for me and for you. I'll use the words I have, over and over again. I'll make them nice, funny, clever. What it takes to keep you awake. I'm... worried.'

I blink towards my friend. He seems very serious about this. The least I can do is oblige. _I'll do my part for as long as he does his._

'John, I came back and found you fallen on the floor. I leave you for a bit and you get in trouble, as always! You can't keep awake, that's not good. You have a red stain in your hair. That's also not good. I can tell what happened. Heavy blow, from a blunt weapon, aimed from behind with some force. You didn't see it coming. That's very not usual. You are a soldier, used to life and death danger.'

I grunt, half-holding onto Sherlock's words by sheer stubbornness. _He politely asked me to stay awake, after all._

Focusing hard, I look better at my friend. He mustn't have been expecting my moment of accentuated clarity, for I can still catch sight of the unveiled worry etched in the lines of his face.

Only now I see he's tied up, hands behind his back. In fact, so am I. We're no longer at the creepy warehouse full of mannequins. Somehow we are both at a smaller, more contained, space. Probably the manager's office in the past, today dominated by a couple of long laboratory equipped benches, and by the two medical examination tables where we lie, held securely to its steel surface by tight ropes. _This warehouse didn't get any less creepy, the way I see it._

It's in defiance that Sherlock keeps himself leaning towards me as much as he physically can. There's protection in his solid presence by my side. He's my bubble of safety right now, as I tried being his for the past couple of days.

'Sherlock...' I speak at last. My first words mirror his concern for me: 'Are you okay?' He nods, looking truthful enough. 'How did you get caught?'

He shrugs. 'I didn't. I...' he hesitates with some elusive word, then settles for: 'I gave myself up.' _Sherlock surrendered._ He's now minimising his self-sacrifice to me, generously playing it down. _But I caused this, when I let myself get caught._

Sherlock continues to explain, perhaps just to keep me awake: 'Greg called me, on my phone. He got pulled out, he had to go. Some crime scene. He wanted us to go. I told him we would stay. But the phone call was bad. I had trouble hearing. So I went out to speak to him. In person. When I came back, I found you, fallen. I knew, by the angle of the wound, you hadn't tripped over a box. I also knew you wouldn't do that to yourself. So, some other person was around. I just had to...' Sherlock's words die out, probably half as much from shock in recalling our predicament as from his speech impairment and the mental exhaustion it causes him.

'I'm sorry', I say out loud, as I blink to refocus the world. _I mean it._ Even if Sherlock got lured outside and ignored the important rule about teamwork and holding ground together in enemy territory – I'll save that lecture for later...

'Now what?' I ask then, tiredly.

'Now we wait till I get the killer and save the day', Sherlock says with too much ease for a man on counted words.

_**.**_

'Who done it?' I hold Sherlock to his promise of keeping me awake.

'The lab... helper.' He chooses his last word with some grudge. It mustn't be the correct one. I think it through.

'Oh, the lab assistant!' I get it all of a sudden. He nods, relieved. Again, it feels like we're playing homely board games on a deadlier scenario. 'How do you know it wasn't the senior scientist?'

'Easy. He didn't make the drug right.'

Sherlock's got a point. The head scientist in a laboratory should know how to make a drug that got recreated in a London flat's kitchen.

'He died', the detective adds. 'I saw his body. And his... helper... couldn't give it to the clients. He messed up, in short.' Sherlock gives up very fast on the idea of walking me through the chemical synthesis process. Probably a good idea, given the level of my headache.

'And now?' I sigh.

'He'll come back. Leave the talk to me. I have a plan.'

_When doesn't Sherlock have a plan? I muse._

Finally the only small door to the laboratory gets opened and a young man with no real distinct features comes in. He's as anonymous as all those mannequins out there. If it wasn't for the dead giveaway of the white lab coat, his attitude of complete serenity – and almost dispassionate detachment from reality – would cause me confusion to identify him as our killer.

'Hello', Sherlock says, petulantly, like on a nice walk in the park. I frown at my friend, to remind him to be careful, keep watch. _All the things Sherlock is not very fond of._

'Welcome to my humble lab', the man comments with a shoulders shrug. 'Not much, I know, but it gets the job done.'

'Don't be like that', Sherlock speaks up. 'You have created a new drug in here', he points out as a praise to the man.

'Yeah, well, haven't finished it yet. It's really hard work.'

I'm stunned as this man is opening up so easily. _It can only mean that he doesn't plan to keep us alive as witnesses, after he's done with us._

I glance at Sherlock, warningly. Again he ignores me.

'So why build a drug that kills the clients?'

The man shrugs, unimpressed. 'Didn't plan it that way. It would have been most short-sighted. Turns out there are chemical interactions I didn't account for. Well, you know, the first clients are always guinea-pigs as it is. That's how science works, isn't it?'

It doesn't get lost in me the irony of discussing drugs as some sort of science advancing invention as we would for a life-saving medicine or a water purifying tablet.

'People have died!' I tell him tersely, frustration mounting in me. _Sherlock, take a look, this is what a true sociopathic scientist looks like!_

He squints, as if failing to see the point. 'Yes, we have already established that. Mistakes happen. It's a part of science advancement... Were you seriously expecting me to test the drug on myself?'

'No', Sherlock answers from the opposing side of the room, before I can. _Sherlock, keep quiet. Keep safe. _He ignores my pleading look. 'Your drug of choice is another', the detective points out, cryptically.

The assistant scientist smiles, touched. 'Yes. You've noticed, then?'

_Wait, what did I miss?_

'I know the side effects well. I can tell.'

I blink. That man is not under the influence of drugs. He's just delusional and it's all his own production. 'Sherlock...?' I ask to be let in on their shared knowledge. _Not being a mad scientist myself._

'Power through Science', Sherlock states simply. 'Just that, John. We are not that unlike, he and I. Both of us want to be known by our peers, they cannot see what we are really like. We are apart from the rest. We can never be like them. They are so far from us. Slow. Stupid. They can't get us. Ever.'

I frown. Maybe Sherlock once owned those words when he was most isolated, branded as a "freak" by Donovan and the likes of her. It must have made him feel that no one could ever understand him. That we, the regular people, were somehow beneath him. It must have caused him frustration and pain to have to continuously explain and justify himself to an audience that distrusted him. But never would my friend actually believe in those powerful words, no more than in a frustrated moment in time, as he tried to harness enough patience. For all my friend's deserved genius, he never let him blind him of his humanity.

The assistant, however, is fully taking the bait of Sherlock's speech.

'They have small minds, they can't understand our thirst for knowledge! We deserve this power over all of them!' the evil scientist holding the power over us is all lit up with deranged excitement to have found a kindred soul in Sherlock.

_No, not really, Sherlock is ever so human. I stake my life on it if necessary._

'We can change how the world sees you', Sherlock returns him the empathy he lacks, and the understanding he craves at a deeper level. Looking at me, he adds meaningfully: 'You don't have to be alone. I can help. Being two makes it easier. It's not being weak, it's being strong for it takes a stronger person to say we need help some of the times.'

_Ta, Sherlock. Just paying it back._

The assistant starts nodding, more and more vigorous, as his belief in Sherlock grows stronger. 'Okay', he mutters at last. I close my eyes, tiredly.

Sherlock has managed to forge a connection with the alienated genius. I feel more relieved.

'I'll need proof that you're on my side, Holmes. I need you to help me create the drug. I'm a couple of steps short. That's why the clients died.'

Sherlock blinks, trying hard to conceal that the demanded proof of allegiance comes as a curve ball, damaging his plan.

'Okay, I can do that', Sherlock sustains the bluff.

'We can try it on that guy.' _He means me._ A cold shiver runs down my spine.

Even if I know, from the bottom of my heart, that I have Sherlock on my side and he does miracles; _it might not be enough this time._

I let my head drop back down on the steel table and groan. Soon, I'm drifting back to sleep despite the perilous circumstances.

_**.**_

I wake up again at the sound of a loud desperate shout:

'No, stop it!' It's Sherlock, urgently urging the laboratory professor's assistant.

Through my migraine I fight hard to focus on my heroic friend. A smile blossoms on my lips. _He did it again. He swooped in to save me._

_I wish he could get on with it, I'm sporting the mother of all headaches here._

'Let him go', Sherlock tries to reason with the assistant. 'John didn't do any wrong.'

I blink, tiredly. Sherlock and his imaginary twin keep coming in and out of focus.

'I'm afraid I can't do that', the man assures coldly, unrepentant. 'I need him yet. John will be my leverage, Mr Holmes. Because you will tell me how to create the drug. Unless you want me to use the last remnants of my own chemical creation on your friend... Come on, Mr Holmes, what will it be? Will you chose to keep your secret and the world safe, or will you save your friend from dying of a very expensive chemical mistake?'

Sherlock's jaw drops in awe. I can tell he wants to save me. I've always been his priority. Sherlock is not one to let the future of society step in the way of him getting what he wants.

'I'll give you what you need', Sherlock promises, subdued. Playing into the deranged game of a true sociopath.

'No!' I beg him to find another way of saving me.

A dangerous needle full of a clear liquid is pushed close to my jugular vein. It's probably been there before. I flinch, but tied up as I am, I can't gain distance from the danger.

'Go on, Mr Holmes', the assistant urges. 'Tell me how to synthesise it.'

_Oh. That requires big fancy words. This could be a good time for a show &amp; tell._ I grunt and roll my pounding head over the cold steel slab, and then back. I'm not entirely surprised when I catch sight of the red smeared stain I leave on the chrome surface.

'Sherlock...' I huff my friend's name because he needs, _he must_ know I can't keep holding on to consciousness for much longer.

_Stall him. Lie to him. Bribe him. Do anything you can to buy yourself the time we need till Greg Lestrade gets here. Just don't tell him how to actually create a deadly chemical compound that can ruin the lives of many._

'We need a lot of things', Sherlock blurts, nodding his head towards the chemical storage. _Damn it, Sherlock! I told you not to do that!_

_Well, I didn't say it out loud. But you – always – listen to my thoughts! Why play shy today?_

'Trust me, John. I can do this', he talks to me directly. I just grunt again, losing grasp on reality and falling into the head-splitting pain. The edges of the dingy laboratory are fading fast.

On one last moment of clear reasoning I realise I've been hit in the head just like Sherlock was when the car hit him. What a sorry pair we'd be if we both woke up with speech impairments?

I guess we could always carry on in a foreign language...

'John!' my friend still calls me. I don't get to look at him, even though I roll my head towards him. I'm falling into a deeper darkness.

_**.**_

'John, go on, you can do it! Go on, open your eyes! That's it, steady on!'

As I return, I find myself slumped against a soft warm fabric, half-raised from the medical examination table. I realise I'm not restrained anymore, and raise uncoordinated fingertips to my temple. I curse through gritted teeth as a burning pain deepens upon touch. A warm deep chuckle from the warm surface where I rest my forehead greets me back, and precise cold fingers come to extract my trembling hand from the vicinity of pain.

'Easy now, John. You need to rest.'

_Sherlock_, of course. I roll my eyes as his shirt's fabric. 'And how long have you been holding on to that one?'

'Too long', he agrees naturally. 'I thought you'd be happy I learnt my lesson.'

'Yeah, you just never really took it easy', I point out.

'I did', he states stubbornly. 'Or we would have never ended up here.'

I frown; and regret doing that at once. 'What happened to the crazy guy?'

'He's a really bad scientist', Sherlock evades a clear answer at first. 'I showed him a simple electrolysis, a useless filtration on a mixable solution, a distillation of two substances with different boiling points that I added back together at the end, and a crystallisation that produced sea salt crystals. Just a bunch of basic school chemistry techniques and he believed in it all. In fact I doubt he's a scientist at all. No critical spirit. All he cared about was to make a profit of his boss' illegal drug dealings. No wonder he couldn't do the drug right...'

I can't tell if I'm more confused by Sherlock's recount or his casual usage of long words again.

'Sherlock, you can-!' _Talk normally?_

I shake my head in relief. To hear his voice come back so easily to his old ways, playing and manipulating words with such ease, causes me a great deal of joy; _and just a tiny shred of regret._

I fear Sherlock will return to his distant cold ways, now he doesn't need my constant help anymore.

Like in the old days, Sherlock seems to read my mind effortlessly. 'I'm still recuperating, John', he tells me warmly, just before he ponders more seriously: 'The speech kinks, however, I'm glad to have got rid of.'

I copy his smile and take a deeper breath. 'And the ambulance to get my concussion checked at the hospital?' Sherlock wouldn't forgive me if I sneaked out of it, after he had to go through with his a couple of days ago.

'On its way, John. And so is Greg Lestrade.'

Breathing slowly through a stab of headache I'm finally gathering my full wits and realising I didn't ask the basic: 'The creepy lab assistant?'

'I knocked him unconscious. He's over at the warehouse and stuffed inside one of those crates full of junk', he confesses easily. 'Then he adds: 'He got it easy, for I needed to come here and tend to you.'

'I'm fine', I protest. He doesn't even pretend to believe me. _Sherlock should know; he's got the practical experience._

_**.**_

Hours later, Greg drives us back to Baker Street. I gratefully accept his offer of a lift, for I know both Sherlock and I are in desperate need to rest and recuperate.

'I shouldn't have left you guys there', the DI regrets as he parks the police car by the curb. It's become a usual sight – a police patrol car in front of 221B, and if grateful neighbours ever thought they'd get rid of an odd hours in the night violinist detective, they're sure to have lost their hopes by now.

'We're fine', I insist, as I catch myself taking a shaky hand to my pounding head and hastily put it back down.

'I'm fine too', Sherlock assures the DI, second-motioning me. It sounds ludicrous in his case, though, because he got his head pretty banged up two days ago.

Greg adds: 'And I'm sure you can speak English just fine, John.' I frown, when I realise he's messing with me.

'I said "I'm fine". What happened to Sherlock is a once-in-a-million sort of event. And, anyway, it was temporary just like I said. He's back to normal now.' I look over to my friend but he has already opened the car door and exited to the traffic. _I'd wish he'd be more careful of incoming cars._

'Yeah', Greg agrees with some regret. 'I kind of liked seeing him struggle. Made him look more human.'

I shake my head. _He shouldn't even joke. _'Sherlock always looked the same to me', I insist, loyally.

Suddenly my side's car door is opened. I look and see my friend standing and waiting. Mimicking, to all appearances, to be distracted and bored, but none the less helping me out of the car. I glance over to Greg, very fast. He's smiling and confirms my suspicions:

'Take care of each other, John.'

_Yeah, I will. For now. Then I need to go back to my flat. Sherlock doesn't require my translator services anymore and can do well without a doctor. He doesn't need me anymore._

As we're left at 221's door by an over-worrying DI, I take the chance to tease my friend, who's supporting me partially as we walk over together.

'Aren't you just looking forward to speaking with your brother now that you've got full range of the English language?' I tease my friend. Mycroft Holmes is sure to drop by in no time, we both know that.

'Nem pouco mais ou menos...*', he answers me mysteriously.

I frown. Portuguese, again? Haven't a clue what he just said. I guess that was the point. He's found a way of mirroring the awkwardness of his past situation. He felt left out, useless, beyond his deepest and most sincere efforts. Throughout it all, more than actually helping him in a practical sense, we only asked him to be patient. And he tried, Sherlock really tried, as the vulnerability of an undisclosed future hanged over his head.

It just didn't seem so important to us, because Sherlock is amazing no matter what, but to him it was as if his whole world had collapsed, it seemed.

'Sherlock, I can imagine how hard this ordeal has been for you...' I start, despite not really knowing what I can say that will make it all alright. We made it to 221B's living room and we both take our customary seats by the lit fireplace. _Bless Mrs Hudson's kindness and foresight._

'Just drop it, John. It's all gone, now', Sherlock insists, in a meaningful tone of voice.

I can't. I must tell him this much:

'I hope you've learnt, through all this, how being an incredible detective is a part of you that will never go away. You've solved a tough case when by all doctor's accounts you should have been home, resting.'

He rolls his eyes with a healthy smirk. 'You keep telling me I never do what my doctors tell me to do', he points out. _Namely me._

Suddenly I notice he's been having a nice conversation with me only using the shortest of words. _And some foreign language as well._ As he lost his speech again? Is his comeback intermittent? Is it a habit now?

'Sherlock, can you tell me—'

He reads into my mind with the customary ease and answers me: 'I can pronounce multisyllabic words and elaborate self-satisfying complex phrasings, John. Please refrain from worrisome demands. My current condition is one of perfect normality and thus shall remain...'

'Then, what were you doing?' I don't give up.

He shrugs. 'It's a good mental exercise', he alleges. Then, surely to annoy me, he adds: 'I should call it "speaking John-language" from now on... What do you think?' He smirks like some mischievous kid.

'I think I can teach you a few new words, of the cursing category, relating to that.' I give him my finest grade smile of a school boy's nature, and steady myself to get up and leave Baker Street. It's time to go. I need a shower, back at my flat. Then a change of bandages and two paracetamol tablets. Sherlock is back to normal and I'm not necessary here anymore. Time will take care of the rest of his healing.

'Gostava que pudesses ficar**', Sherlock mutters under his breath. I violently turn around to face him. A bit too violently for my headache's sake and I flinch involuntarily.

'I suppose I can _stay a little longer_', I tell him with a smile.

He presses his lips thin, half-annoyed and half-amused. 'You know how to speak Portuguese', he deduces, rolling his eyes just like on that first time I told him Harry was my sister, and not my brother. "There's always something!"

'Yeah, just a bit. We were stationed in Helmand with some Portuguese soldiers. It passed the time, learning a few new foreign words...' I frown deeper, as I become aware: 'Mostly curse words.'

'Hm.' He makes an undefined noise.

'Shall I stay?' I ask directly. _I want to._

'Por favor***.' I just smile and put my jacket down again. _Would love to, Sherlock._

_**.**_

_Translations:_

_*__ 'Not really' [in a weird, possibly regional way of saying it. Literally: "Not even a bit of more or less"]_

_** 'I wish you could stay.'_

_*** 'Please do.' _


	152. Chapter 152

_(A/N) It came out like this. Still not British, a writer, or anything other than myself. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

I jumped into the Thames, after a woman got pushed in by another. She dived in from an upper river decking, straight down from one of the promenade walks with the old cast iron street lamps and the small restaurants. It was utterly unexpected and somewhat terrifying, given the speed between she-is-there and she-is-gone.

Turned out, I gathered after a small run to the edge, the woman who fell in really couldn't swim. Or she panicked from shock at first contact with the gelid murky waters of a particularly full river, engorged by the tidal influence. I didn't quite bother with the details of her inability to swim (for her life). She needed my help, and I blew my cover (sort of) by jumping after her, trying to assist her safely to the river bank's margin.

Meanwhile, the woman who pushed her in had run away, undisturbed by the shocked spectators at the promenade walk. That was unfortunate. Sherlock Holmes had made me responsible to keep an eye out, just a few hours earlier.

I wasn't thrilled about the assignment. Stalking a young woman through London is nothing but inconspicuous and creepy. No matter if Sherlock Holmes is sure she just stole some expensive jewellery. If I got spotted, the apparent stalking of a woman half my age would be made out as something entirely different (and morally despicable).

Sometimes I don't think Sherlock understands these subtleties of human interaction. More often, I've come to believe he doesn't care for them. It's all about the end result with Sherlock, the bottom line. What's a little social embarrassment if we get to retrieve the famous Saigon pearls and avoid a diplomatic incident?

I suspect his brother Mycroft has given him the case to solve. And I'm fairly sure that Sherlock is far more interested in the mechanics of the case than on international affairs.

So I kept my fingers crossed. Keeping nevertheless in mind that, as a retired army official, my stalking act could question my whole career for Queen and country.

I forgot all my personal reticence when the woman I was stalking (_I mean: following!_)got thrown into the Thames. Pearls or no pearls, a life was at stake.

In a couple of minutes of powerful strokes in those briskly cold waters I reached her as she struggled faintly to keep afloat, exhausted. Negotiating her trust in me, I supported her weight and swam for the both of us, back to land. Passersby had already seen two people go down and alerted the authority. A astonished police officer came to join us as I was already supporting her stumbling footsteps inshore, on firm ground, while she firmly clung to her handbag in typical shock behaviour.

I welcomed the law and insisted on an ambulance so to keep her from reaching an hypothermic state.

_**.**_

I put on my best smile – the choir boy smile I know how to sport on demand – and asked that DI Lestrade of New Scotland Yard should be called in. Not really sure what Greg can do for me, being Homicide division, but the stolen pearls affair called for discretion. I know Greg can be trusted, and with not being able to call Sherlock (my phone is waterlogged) I desperately needed to have someone on my side, who could resume the chase for the missing pearls.

I'm sitting at the back of a police car, quietly supervising at a distance the paramedics' work at the open doors ambulance. The young woman's vitals are being monitored – she seems okay, under a slight shock and the beginning of hypothermia – when I hear two sets of car tyres screech simultaneously from two opposite directions.

Slowly I turn my head and glance at the first incoming vehicle.

_Oh, that's nice! Greg's arrived._

He's all red in the face, hasty and grumpy. Don't really know what's troubling him. I'd say he got interrupted at some important crime scene work, but if so he'd have taken longer to get here.

Greg's flashing his badge and talking to the officer in charge, that has sealed off the perimeter. Well, that will save me some trouble updating Greg.

The other car, a taxi, has stopped further up the street. I can see the distinct silhouette of my friend Sherlock Holmes emerging from it. With a casual monitoring glance around him he starts walking towards us, flicking up his long coat's collar.

_All mysterious with his cheekbones and all. Sherlock loves a bit of flair and drama._

Greg Lestrade interrupts Sherlock at once and firmly places himself at his side, as they both come over.

'Sherlock, what is this about?' I hear him ask the consulting detective.

'It's about a very expensive pearl necklace, inspector', Sherlock states frontally.

'And how expensive is "very expensive"?' Greg tries to understand.

'It costs just about an entire small nation', Sherlock answers with a head tilt.

'And it's missing, is that it? John gave the first officer on the scene a description of a woman who ran away. I presume she has got the necklace since the one who got thrown in the river hasn't.'

Sherlock allows himself a little smirk before assuring the DI: 'Never presume, inspector. It makes up for lazy detective work.' Then, with a magician's quality to his moves, Sherlock removes from his shirt jacket pocket a strand of pearls, growing longer and longer as he pulls it out. 'I have the necklace. What they had was an exact replica.'

I allow a faint but sincere smile to quirk my lips before I let my head sag back against the car's headrest, and close my eyes. I feel sluggish and detached, now the adrenaline is fading out.

I don't really care if Sherlock tricked me and used me, as he withheld information from me. I suspect he assumes I wouldn't have been so thorough if I had known the pearls were fake and the real ones were safe all along – as Greg and all the spectators all know. He's wrong.

I just don't understand why Sherlock always needs to do things the hard way. His plans are never plain or simple.

Somewhere beyond my small world, Greg and Sherlock start arguing at once. "You've got the pearls?"

"Naturally, inspector. A small nation was at risk. Do pay attention."

"Then what was John doing jumping to the river?"

"Beats me, inspector! It's not like I boss him around."

My brain feels more and more sluggish and their antics are just a touch outlandish for me right now.

"Who did you say John was tailing?"

"The housemaid. She was the thief."

"And why did you make John tail her if all she had was a fake?"

"I intended to find her contacts", Sherlock answers patiently, but not without a condescending tone. "She's sat at that ambulance, Lestrade. Go do your job and question her on the stolen pearls. There's something more important I need to do right now."

"Right now?" the inspector protests to the abrupt departure of the younger man.

"Right now", Sherlock confirms, answering to the letter.

"Sherlock...!" Greg won't let go.

This is going to be a long argument, I realise, sinking further onto the back seat. The noises around me are starting to blur onto a continuous input of no distinct nature as I allow myself to drift off.

I'm jerked awake when a soft warm pressure comes into contact with my shoulder. I open my eyes wide in reflex, adrenaline comes rushing in my veins, urging me to action. Scarcely two inches above my face is that of my friend, looking attentively with bright warm eyes. The indifference he states and the worry I find in his eyes are so antagonistic. I decide, as always, to trust the latter. As Sherlock sees so plainly the surprise on my features he releases his own to a half-smirk, half-understanding smile.

'I believe you might be slightly hypothermic yourself, John. The average Thames water temperature for this time of year is—' he starts, but then stops short.

'Yes?' I croak, my voice suddenly pasty.

'We can talk about that later', he assures me, undressing his long coat in a swift motion and pushing me on my feet, outside the police car.

'Sherlock!' I protest, over shaky legs.

'You need to walk, keep your blood circulation reaching your limbs', he insists, suddenly all pushy and overbearing. I take a few cramped steps and suddenly I'm overweighed by his long wool coat, draped over my shoulders. It's heavier than I thought, I notice with some surprise. Before I can say a word, he has pushed down the collar and ties his scarf around my neck.

_It's weird to dress up as Sherlock._

'You'll be cold!' I gather my wits to warn him.

'I'm not the one in wet clothes', he points out. 'Although, thanks to the river's natural ecological mechanisms, the water is actually warmer than the cold air outside. I'd say the river water temperature won't go below 4 degrees Celsius due to the vegetable and animal life in it – and the city's illegal effluents – while the cold February air is below zero today.'

I frown. 'So, you need your coat back', I gather from his speech.

'The natural agitation from the water particles sped up the heat loss process while you were in it, and it has dangerously lowered your core body temperature, John. Also, your clothes are now soaking wet and plastered to your body.' _Is he going all funnily scientific because of what I've done?_ Sherlock is immune to my confusion, and carries on, maniacally: 'I understand you do not approve of socially stripping in public so I'll have to insist you'll take my coat instead, for added protection against the hypothermic process you are already experiencing.'

'What?' _Too much when I'm a bit sleepy, Sherlock._

He looks down on me with a warm expression and some undeniable affection in it. 'Bottom line, John, it's cold', I giggle before I can help myself. _No shit, Sherlock; it's cold!_

'Speaking of which, you need your coat back', I persist as I try to shrug off the fabric off my shoulders as if it was causing me offense, but I'm stopped by my friend, as he splays his hands atop my still clad forearms.

'Just a bit more, John. Your core body temperature is still low, even if your stubbornness remains unharmed.'

I raise an eyebrow. 'And how would you know that?'

_The body temperature, I mean, not the supposed stubbornness I insistently reject._

He frowns at me. 'I learnt to spot the signs from a good doctor.'

I shake my head as an unchallenged smile blossoms into my lips. 'I'm fine, Sherlock. I've only been in the water for a few minutes.'

Regret flashes over his honest expression before he scolds his features. Then he bites his lip in restraint, takes a deep breath, and I just know he's going to exceptionally raise his voice in our partnership, even before I hear his words filling the afternoon air:

'_Just drop it, John!_ A small nation is dependent on it!'

I purse my lips thin, tilt my head in defiance and frown at my friend. 'It wasn't my priority, you know.'

'I'm sure', he admits.

'A life is so much more important than some old pearls. Did you expect me to put the pearls first?'

'I expected you to multitask', he deadpans, completely missing the point. I sigh, frustrated because Sherlock never learns a lesson, before taking a shaking hand to my jeans pocket and extracting a long pearl necklace, just like his. 'There. Keep it. The real deal, as you damn well know. It has grieved me enough.' At the end of my begrudged victory speech I can hardly contain a sneeze.

'Thanks, John', he says respectfully.

'So why play this trick on me? Coming in with another set of pearls, showing them about, acting like I've just risked my life for nothing?' I ask him, tense.

'Not playing a trick on you', he tells me, leaning forward to me and impressing strength in his words. 'On her. The thief. I've set you to tail her so she'd know she was being followed.'

I groan. 'I did a good job!' I defend myself, heatedly.

'She's a very good professional con artist. _She knew._ I wanted her to know or I'd have used my irregular network in London. Multiple people in multiple places, that's the only way she wouldn't have spotted a tail. I needed to flush her out. I needed her not to pass on the stolen goods. She kept her meeting with the second woman, an accomplice. It was schemed between the both of them that she's be pushed off the ledge by the second woman, and so it happened. Our thief was once a circus acrobat, I knew she'd be able to perform under pressure. She planned to swim ashore after hiding the pearls on the sewage grids. Even when caught and search, she'd not have the pearls on her. She could come back for them later, being the only one who knew where they were hidden.'

'And your fake pearls?'

'She was bound to find out that you took the pearls from her, at some point, John. I just aimed at keeping you safe. It's the least I can do. After all, because of me, you've jumped willingly into the Thames.' He's looking more and more worried. He shouldn't. I'm warming up already, and he's the one looking affected by the cold now.

'I'm fine', I assure him caringly. I hate to see him feeling guilty over my own choices.

He nods mechanically, as a man who is trying to convince himself. 'I'll need to hand them to Mycroft, of course. And as soon as that is done I'll need a blood sample from you.'

'A blood sample?' I repeat.

'Obviously! Have you seen the state of the Thames waters? They are a petri dish for diseases and pollutants, John! I need to monitor your blood contents at Baker Street for the next couple of days, at least!' He's as excited as a kid with a new project.

'And blog about it?' I can tell he's not volunteering nursing duties if I get sick.

'And you can blog about a small nation's need for a string of pearls, John, so long as you keep the nation appropriately anonymous.'

'Deal.'

_**.**_


	153. Chapter 153

_A/N: I swear that when I started this collection I struggled to put together (as little as) five mini-plots. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'Which was it, John?' Sherlock Holmes' words are cold as steel. I stiffen at once.

'Seriously, Sherlock, it was nothing. Just a mugging', I assure him calmly, standing strongly at his side, both staring the same way.

'We're looking at a police line up. Just say the number, John... They can't see you', he adds, pointedly. I'm glad it's just the two of us in here right now. If Sherlock is trying to provoke a reaction then he's succeeding.

'I know they can't see me and it's not like I'm scared of a half-wit young adult who took my wallet and has strewn all the shopping on the sidewalk! Sherlock, not even Mrs Hudson would be scared of a dimwit who didn't even-'

Sherlock's tensing up further, I can tell. _This isn't working._

'He dislocated your shoulder, John!' my friend hisses, angrily.

'He got lucky. Slammed me against the wall. It was easy. Bummed shoulder and all. It's all back in place.'

'You've got painkillers. _Which one was it?_'

'Not taking the damned painkillers. Forget it, Sherlock.'

'Which - one?' He's growling now.

'What if I can't remember?' I defy.

'Then you need more painkillers because the pain is messing with your mind. Just saying...' He starts acting all aloof. I frown and pat my pocket to make sure my friend did not repossess them. They're not exactly legal. With me not being allowed to prescribe medication to myself and refusing to waste doctors time on a bruise... Not planning on taking them anyway - don't need the grogginess and to give Sherlock a reason to worry. I just wanted to keep them close as sort of a insurance policy.

'Which one?'

I roll my eyes; quite uselessly in the dusk at the little witness room, opposite the identification line up.

'You're the detective', I distract him with a challenge.

'Fine. Suit yourself. They'll all pay.'

I stare directly at my friend, a cold nausea settling at my stomach. 'They weren't all there, Sherlock! For God's sake, some of the others are volunteers or get paid to join in just to make the identification more reliable. You know that, right?'

'Didn't fail to know that', he admits. 'Then again I'm the sociopath in the room.'

' "High functioning", you said.'

'I don't plan to get caught', he confides, a little too smugly, in an all too different interpretation of "high functioning". 'Besides, John, someone needs to make sure you take the painkillers. You can't push me away by making me go sleuthing, John.'

After clearing my throat awkwardly, I resume: 'You plan to supervise me?' He nods shortly, and I feel the fabric of his jacket slide against mine as he shrugs. 'How?' I fear, mesmerised.

'Not leaving you alone, John. You'll need help. How will you cope with just one healthy arm? You need to tie your shoes, and all your shoes have laces. You need to button up your jacket against the cold winter air. You need to cut your food with the cutlery. You need to type in your laptop with your two fingers method and it's already _sooo_ slow, it'd be worse with only one...'

'Sherlock...' I warn him.

'Fine, you can type with just one finger. Sometimes you already do.'

'Ta, Sherlock... Now, will you stop that silly vengeance thing? It achieves nothing. What is done is done, Sherlock, and -'

'What do you think I'll do to him?' Sherlock asks me point-blank, with an indecent twinkle in his eye.

I sigh, as he leans against the double-sided mirror, all too comfortable.

'Honestly?' I ask and then answer all but honestly: 'You'll probably tie him up and dangle him from the London Bridge. Or tie him up and put leeches all over him. I don't really know.'

Sherlock is shaking his head in mock lament. 'Don't feel the need to tie him up at all', he says.

I get cut short before I can say anything by Sherlock grabbing hold of the internal microphone and shouting into the other room: 'Got you!' There's triumph in his voice. _What just happened?_

As Sherlock speeds past me out of this room and the mugger has fled the line up, I realise Sherlock had been intentionally leaning against the intercom and I had, for all purposes, inadvertently broadcasted all that would get done to my assailant.

_Sherlock, wait up! I can't run, my shoulder hurts like hell!_

The fugitive is the one that reacted the most guiltily at the line up, running away. Sherlock got him right.

I'm trying to force my way after one mad, possessive, protective best friend, but I'm immediately intercepted by DI Lestrade.

'John, can you tell me what the hell was that?' The DI points back at the line-up. He's frustrated, exasperated and worried all at once.

Even to a mutual friend I can't snitch on Sherlock. Greg gives me a full, heavy, appreciative look. Well, at least not here, where others can listen. I know Greg can be trusted. Cradling my left arm, I opt to say:

'Sherlock's trying his hand at life coaching for the wasted petty criminals.'

Greg rubs his face with the palm of his hand. 'Where?' he asks from his momentary hideout.

I think back, blankly. 'London's Bridge, possibly', I answer. 'Or an exotic animals pet shop', I mutter, confused, so low he doesn't really register.

_Why did I say those things? Damn my creativity._

_How did I fall for Sherlock's neat little trick?_

_I should have seen it coming._

'London's - bloody - Bridge?' Greg spats, incredulous. 'That's Sherlock alright. All bang and noise. Helpless is the small time criminal that steps in both your way.'

I guess. _A bit not good, Greg._

I frown. But no, he isn't like that, not when it _really matters_.

'I'm sorry', I mutter, tiredly, rubbing my own face. _I scared Sherlock. I couldn't talk sense into him. He wants to get into trouble because of me._

'Look, let me get you a coffee, shall I?' Greg cuts in, brotherly. 'One of those new mochas, perhaps.' I nod, carelessly, and watch him leave my side.

I take a grateful seat in the nearest chair.

Greg doesn't come back for a very, very long while, and by then he's forgotten my mocha.

_**.**_

After a rough night where I couldn't find a comfortable position in bed, and kept awake to hear Sherlock return to 221B (which he finally did at 4am), I find my way downstairs at the first lights of dawn.

Ticking on the kettle and tipping some instant coffee into my RAMC mug, I turn on the telly for the news, to keep me distracted.

Opening the jam jar will have to wait till Sherlock gets out of bed. It stirs at my shoulder too much, even if I pin it on the crook of my elbow.

Nibbling at some bland toast and alternating it with sips of coffee, I almost choke when I hear the detailed morning headlines on the telly:

"A man has been strung and thrown off London's Bridge at the early hours. The Metropolitan Police has set up a rescue plan for the man who has been seen wriggling helplessly at a considerable height above the water front, held by a rope. The Coastal Guard has set up rescue boats on call. Journalists have captured images of the man from the perimeter set at the scene, that show he's been roughened up prior to being pushed. Sources say that leads are scarce for the Met and some interest has been visible, minutes ago, for a tossed mocha coffee paper cup discarded at the scene. The importance of the finding has yet to be established in this baffling case. Furthermore, a technical glitch at the time of the bizarre crime has been blamed for erasing all the cctv footage at the site and surrounding areas. Finally, it is rumoured that the victimized man has been refusing to identify the perpetrators and insisting it was 'a amiable and deserved prank'."

I hear near silent footsteps approaching my armchair from behind me and I know better than to turn around with my tender shoulder as it is.

'Sherlock...' I mutter heavily.

He veers off course immediately and claims: 'Don't know what you are talking about, John.'

I smile. 'For future reference, you're supposed to let me say something first, then you say that, Sherlock.'

'Oh', he ponders. 'Okay', he adds, calmly.

'Look...' I start. _Where do I start?_

'He won't bother you or anyone else, Mrs Hudson included, ever again. He agreed to it.'

I nod, touched. 'Thanks.'

Sherlock pretends he didn't hear me thanking him and instead asks: 'Mind if I play the violin?'

'Not at all, Sherlock.' _Might just be what we both need right now._

He walks to the window by the sofa, where he keeps his precious violin and musical scores.

'And the mocha paper cup?' I ask carefully, recalling that detail from the news. I give Sherlock some space by adjusting the sling's strap over my clavicle. 'Like the coffee I never got from Greg.'

Sherlock plucks a simple B tone from the violin strings and assures me: 'It was meant for you.' His confidence comes as he studies me.

'Was Greg in on it?' I'm surprised.

'A detective inspector from the New Scotland Yard?' Sherlock fakes outrage. 'Obviously not... I made him go home after I took the coffee cup from him.'

'So, he _was_ there.'

'Briefly. He couldn't afford to be seen. Whereas I, on the other hand... I don't care.'

'The glitch on the cctv was planned then', I add.

'Mycroft insisted. Something about making the cleaning up after me a whole lot easier', Sherlock confirms drily. 'You know all this already', he warns as if I'm asking the wrong - _easy_ \- questions.

I look into the lit fireplace to push past the thankful lump on my throat and the moist threatening at my eyes, so I can do my part: 'Sherlock, you shouldn't have-'

He stops me short. _Maybe because I didn't sound half-convincing?_

'I wanted you to come, John. Thought it was only fair. But you need painkillers and...'

'Not taking them.'

'...you think it's too much for a mugging, even if it caused you severe discomfort. _It's not._ Just drop it, John. No-one should ever hurt you, John. I made sure that one dimwit criminal won't repeat it. I'll do it one at a time, for as long as it takes, all the way up the scale from the man that hastes to take the last bus seat available when your leg hurts to a Moriarty-type of villain that seeks world domination. Until it's widely known out there, John, that you are my protégée.'

'Sherlock...'

'And you'd do the same for me', he adds for good measure with a truth-daring head tilt. I nod; _sure would._

'So, as you were lying on your bed, tossing and turning, judging by your tousled hair, the crease marks on your t-shirt and the dark hollowness under your eyes', he deduces all in one breath, 'I was busy making wrongs right.'

Is it that simple for Sherlock? Is there a sociopathic portion of his mind - the one that disengages from consequences by means of über rationalism - so inconsequential that he can exert revenge without remorse?

Whether by training or nature, he's easily being generous, selfless, as he takes a truly disturbing sociopathic amorality in his choices. But he does it, ultimately, for me.

'Sherlock...' I start, picking my words carefully. 'Did you choose London's Bridge because of what I said to you at the Yard?'

'Yes', he confirms, with a head nod. Hands behind his back and quiet, he looks like a kid waiting for the inevitable telling off from the school's head teacher. And I can tell he's totally unrepent.

'So if I has said something else, you'd have done that. Not something you'd come up with.'

'He didn't hurt me, John. It was your choice to make.'

'You didn't tell me I was choosing.'

'Tish tosh.' He shrugs.

Slowly I pet the absurdity of the situation dawn on me. My friend, actually my two good friends, took it upon them to exert an absurd revenge sketch on the man who harmed me. And made him promise to reform. That last part might have been both Sherlock's or Greg's influence.

They're the best of friends.

'John?' Sherlock calls, looking suddenly deflated. Vulnerable even, as he tries to make sense of my sudden silence. 'Are... Are you in pain?'

A small forbidden giggle erupts from deep within my jumbled emotions. 'No, you git, I'm thankful!... I really am', I add, more sober. Our gazes cross, honest and raw.

'John, you're overemotional.'

'That's every day, according to you.'

'True.'

'And don't I know that?' I shake my head in regret. 'I should have known you'd be so supportive, so... _you_. But I still get surprised. I'm not used to bring cared for, Sherlock.'

'Oh.' He accepts my words with some confusion, but I'm sure he got it. Sherlock then retorts, with a sweeping glance across the room. 'I don't know what you are on about, John.'

A silly giggle pushes through. 'Good comeback, Sherlock.' I stare straight at my friend. 'I'm on about saying a good, proper "thank you".'

'It's fine. You don't always have to fight your battles alone, John. You should know that. You taught me that.'

My breath catches. 'Good to know.'

'How about those painkillers now? Your transport needs to catch up on some hours of sleep. I'll be here, keeping an eye out, of it helps.'

I nod. It does.

'Okay, then.' He hands me the painkillers bottle - _when did he get hold of it? did he plan to crush them into fine dust and spike my tea?_ I wouldn't put it past the man and it's not even a Wednesday today...

'I gather you didn't use the leeches?' I notice as a last minute thought.

'No. Keeping them. He didn't refuse to cooperate.'

'How disappointing', I join what I hope is a joke. 'Make sure to keep them out of the veggies drawer in the fridge. They get too crispy.'

'Sure. They don't like cold damp places anyway', he accepts easily.

Well, hm... _Not the bathtub again!_ 'Sherlock!'

_**. **_


	154. Chapter 154

_A/N: A Victorian age plot, with the contemporary characters. Yes, I know it's close to what has been done. So all I can do is to fall short, I know that too. But as long as I have a different (new?) take on it, I can't get it off my head... I want to focus on the time frame, and maybe that process can highlight the silent background choices that make the episode great. Although it's totally unrelated. Because I won't mess with what's been done by the ones who made these stories possible._

_So, three traditional ways of doing this (well, from the top of my head, it's not like I have a manual; ...is there a manual?; I should get me a manual): 1. Utterly unexplained (fails logically, not my favourite); 2. Dream sequence (been there a bit too many times, got the t-shirt to prove it); 3. Time travelling (like in the old sci-fi books). I gave the third one a try. This is the first of more to come. Don't know how many. I'm still making this up. I haven't a clue why I like to make my life harder this way. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Sherlock Holmes is a very academically accomplished man. His life's work on deductive reasoning applied to contemporary criminology stems from his vast knowledge in science. It's easy to associate my friend with the cold factual sciences of mathematics, biochemistry, human anatomy and such exact sciences. I wouldn't put past him the exuberance of nuclear physics and genetic engineering.

Sometimes he makes it too easy for us to forget his artistic side, the one he keeps as a homely secret, shared only with a handful of people he cares about. Not that Sherlock Holmes is one to publicize his emotions. No, he distrusts emotions and tries to compartmentalise them in neat rational boxes. His human nature comes to light in the smaller, less visible hints. It's when we're treated to a lovely violin piece of his own creation, so expressive as a soul bearing exercise in its own melodic language, that we are blessed to share Sherlock's open heart.

Those two years my friend was gone — to all purposes, gone from the entire world — it was these shared precious moments I missed the most, not the amazing brainy deductions at crime scenes. It was his friendship I valued the most, not his professional genius. Oddly enough, the man is so clever but he sometimes can't see this distinction. _He sees himself as a detective first, and above all else._

Sherlock wouldn't understand if I told him this. He has focused his life skills on the cold exact sciences, on the mathematical reasoning and factual truths, avoiding the more treacherous and imprecise area of human emotions and motivation. _Sometimes he relies on me to understand these._

Don't get me wrong. Sherlock Holmes has a heart that is one of the most generous I've ever glimpsed, and Sherlock will always be one of the best men I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Funnily enough, he's a natural at this; unlike the trained effort with which he studies the scientific matters.

Much to his secret dismay, I've often caught my friend immersed in studying at the odd hours of the night. With an ascetic type of vainness, he'd much rather have me believe his genius comes effortlessly — and not as admirable as some would claim — instead of fuelled with hard work. He fails to perceive that I actually admire him the more for the hard work. A small tangible proof that he's as human as the rest of us, and he works to rise above. And since he hardly sleeps (unhealthy habit), he makes the most of his (self-imposed?) insomnias by studying.

I sometimes catch my friend in this habit when I'm roused by a wartime nightmare (they're an unhealthy obsession of mine) and we end up sitting peacefully together in the living room, enjoying each other's company in a silent but sharing synergy.

This is another way I can vouch for Sherlock's hard work at being a genius. Like I mentioned, sometimes it's a silent stubborn unrecognised work. As a spectator, I'm left just at the brink of his incredibly active world, and I'm okay with that. His mechanical efforts — lately he's been building something in the living room table — only grounds me further as I'm still reeling from the vivid memories that sprung me awake. I've asked Sherlock what he's building, of course, but he has refused to clear the mystery so far. Sherlock is very much the magician; all smoke and mirrors to make the simplest trick the more spectacular. I've even tried to have a look at those yellowed pages, cobweb traces at the bind, moldy leather covered book, the one he's been consulting so often. Sherlock just snatched the book away from my hands and petulantly declared his right of privacy. I pointedly glanced at the open laptop on the table, the one he never asks to use (he just cracks my newest password every time).

'A man who values his privacy so much', he snapped at me, 'should be able to give others some, John!'

I decided to humour him, raising my hands mid-air in surrender, and granting him immediate privacy. He then ominously added: 'You'll find out when I'm done, John.'

_It filled me with both curiosity and reserve._

After this simple interaction, I couldn't break his request for secrecy, and having been promised that my curiosity would be quenched once his project was finished, I stuck to my end of the bargain, and quietly joined my friend in silent support every night I couldn't sleep anymore. Which has been most nights anyway.

Tonight has been no exception.

As I slowly descend the stairs from my bedroom, my head still pounding from all the explosions, gunshots and screams that impossibly filled me till I woke up in an unfit state, clutching my gun, rolled in bed sheets and squatting on the floor (the huge sense of relief immediately turning to mortification, and slowly fading to a settled acceptance as I realised where I was; home). I put my gun away, rubbed my face hard to chase away the last remnants of phantom images lingering on my mind, and realised at last this must have been one of the quiet ones.

Sometimes I let out no sound while fighting my nightmares.

It's as if a more awake part of me feels ashamed of my reaction, or has come to accept the nightmares as natural by now. I wouldn't know, and I'm powerless to change my own reactions.

Sherlock was, therefore, none the wiser about this new one, but I willingly give him the chance to keep tabs over my sleeping patterns — I know he does — by going down to join him in the living room.

As I emerge at the door, I find my friend's attention diverged from his intricate work (over what today looks like a complicated motor) and directly fixed on me. I can still sense the worry lodged in the lines of his face. I straighten my shoulders and raise my chin at once, like the soldier I am. He discretely glances at his wristwatch — keeping tabs, I know — and immediately resumes his work on the machine atop the table. _Analysing it as he analyses me._ I bite my lower lip, shivers still rattling my body from time to time, and make a beeline for my chair.

Clearing my throat, I'm desperately grasping at some words to say to the mad scientist in the room. Something that will get his attention off me.

'Still building your machine, Sherlock?'

The answer is obvious, and as soon as I talk I'm so sure he'll berate me for asking him a worthless question.

Instead, what I get is a low affirmative hum. 'Tea?' he asks me in solidarity.

I make no mistakes; he's not offering to do it, but asking me for some. It doesn't fall amiss that the tea making process is, personally, a grounding mechanical chore. Furthermore, making tea for two in each our personal preferences is a reminder that he's in the room with me. Good timing, too; the haunting memories I brought back from the war are pulling me back under, product of an exhausted mind.

'Yes, tea!' I accept at once, with undeserved glee. I get up to make it with gratitude, I can still sense his concerned gaze on my back, studying me, unsure of how to better reach me.

_It's still here, Sherlock. I'm lost and found at the same time._

There's nothing more Sherlock can do for me. This is a natural process, one I need to go through, and hopefully come out better at the other end. We both know this. There are easy and tough times. I'm blessed to have come back and found a new lease on life.

The aromatic richness of black tea leaves and bergamot — earl grey tonight — diffuses in 221B as I pour boiling water over the tea bags on the two mugs. It's as if the soothing fragrance never leaves Baker Street these days. It's ingrained on the wallpaper and upholsteries, making it even more homely and soothing. The warm fragrance, full of tannins, spreads further as I bring the mugs over to Sherlock.

'John?'

Sherlock's voice is sharp and cautious as I stand by his side, holding out one of the tea mugs for him.

'Hm?' I come back with a small start.

He tilts his silently so as to point me to the mugs on my hands. _What?_ Did I forget to put sugar in his?

_Oh._ I finally realise I'm handing him my RAMC mug. The one I made him promise never to touch again (he's not to store dangerous chemicals, body parts, or destroy on indoor shooting practises). I hastily sniff it and I'm sure this is the sickly sugary one, the one with a precise amount of too many sugars in it. His tea. So I just shrug and let him have it. _Every rule has an exception, I'm sure._

With his long fingers snaking around it, he finally takes the mug I'm offering him. Respectfully, almost reverentially. His care and concern again aggravate the soldier in me, so I briskly turn around and stiffly walk off to the bathroom where he cannot follow me, abandoning my own tea.

As I silently emerge some minutes later, Sherlock's quietly sipping his tea from the mug on one hand, and with the other he's jolting down long complicated formulas on a notepad.

I come to take a grateful seat at my armchair, facing my friend at the table, and sip my tea demurely.

He won't look at me, yet I'm sure he can tell my hair is still damp from the cold water I sprayed on my face, desperately trying to awaken myself.

_**.**_

It's been two weeks and an insomnia routine has kicked in, after the nightmares that assault me each night. Every time I come downstairs, and my friend and I sit quietly through the rest of the night, engrossed in his production. He labours peacefully and I watch his efforts, mesmerised.

Shirt sleeves rolled up, motor oil greased hands as he pucks up a spanner with the idle moves of a man who's never needed to work a day in his life and is finding this exercise a curious example of everyday life. He leans over the machine with dextrous graceful movements, tuning it to his satisfaction. Some dark oil splatters on his shirt, but the impeccably dressed genius doesn't seem bothered. Mrs Hudson will take the shirt to the cleaners and they will sort that out later, or he'll just bin it and buy a new one. Sherlock is not one to pay attention to such mundane things. Whatever clothes he's recklessly ruining, he hasn't completely disregarded safety procedures. Instead of his laboratory safety goggles, he's got on, in his most serious composure, old-fashioned leather-strapped aviator goggles, that only clash the more with his unruly black curls. If the glasses are some sort of vintage piece (and why he chose them or they some sort of reference or inside joke, it's beyond me) the lenses are brand new, bearing no scratches or damage. Safety comes before style, I suppose.

I still have no idea as to the final form or function of this machine, unlike any other I've ever seen. Somehow the sweet curious appeal of it has only been another lifeline on my grounding process, as I fully take in 221B with its customary exuberance.

Sherlock's mysterious machine grows nightly in size and fashion. It's now a ghastly sight built from internet ordered parts and rusting old pieces acquired at a junkyard. With its growing volume also came further complexity. There are motors, rotors, generators, oscilloscopes, levers, springs, dented wheels, dials and buttons, and even a compass. All conjured together in a magician's work of sheer craftsmanship.

It has grown so big in size that it spilled over the living room's table in the process; swallowing at least two missing chairs in the process, I bet.

_What it is actually supposed to do remains a mystery only the detective can solve._

Tonight I can tell something is different, as Sherlock paces around his machine slowly, pondering it with some suspicion.

'John', he starts with the tone of voice of someone who's been having a long conversation with me already (and I wasn't in the room), 'this is not satisfactory.'

'Sorry to hear that', I mutter automatically, thinking back on all the trouble my friend has had with that upscale piece of junk.

He adds just then, as if he hasn't even heard me: 'Your insomnias have yet to ease and we have a schedule to keep to.'

I frown. _Personal grounds here, Sherlock. Maybe my friend should mind his own business?_

'I know', I say belatedly, only because I sense he's waiting for me to say something — anything — in order to continue.

'So I'm altering my plans and making this bigger.'

_Right_, that sounds logical... or _not_. '...Sherlock?'

'And you'll be a part of this experiment.'

According to previous experiences, that's not the best idea. However I miss my chance to protest. He rightly interprets my silence as consent in being part of his mysterious mad science experiment.

'Another week should suffice, John.' I hum, uncommitted. 'And see if you can get some sleep', he adds distractedly, brooding over his machine again. 'We'll need to be well rested for this.'

_Right, Sherlock. Do you realise I've been trying nothing else every night? That's very un-genius-like..._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	155. Chapter 155

_A/N: Smaller, filler; because it was too easy._

_Still not British, a writer or a time-traveller from the future. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

I was somewhat dozing off, peacefully, come the first morning lights. There's an underlying exhaustion in me, resulting from a couple of weeks of insomnias. My physically drained body has taken to the unhealthy habit of waking up after two or three hours of sleep at night, just as I'm about to fall into the deeper stages. Without the much needed rest, I take second best. I come down to faithfully team up with Sherlock at the homely comforts of 221B's living room. With knowing gestures I position myself in my old battered armchair, the one Sherlock assures me has a permanent indentation mark for someone of my stature and weight. Could it be it has gained my shape — and that would explain why Sherlock has stopped directing clients to seat on it as they tell him their stories — or that it has so many broken springs inside (especially after that one time when it magically cleared out of Sherlock's view of the kitchen, and then casually returned to its place) that it just isn't fit for guests anymore. However it may be, it feels just right for my overstrained muscles as I take a slumped seat on it every night, and find it the most comfortable piece of furniture in all of London.

So comfy in about to fall asleep, neglecting my self-imposed, faithful veiling of Sherlock's work. As my eyelids tremble shut, my neck extending towards my left shoulder, I'm barely consciously curling over my weakened side in self-protection (I'm a soldier at heart, always at war), I'm losing the fight to keep my eyes open. Glassy as they may be, for I think I'm dozing off already, other images have started to superimpose on the familiar reality of the lit room.

I must be walking around some beach, for there's a lot of sand and... _Oh, no._

'John?'

I shake my head, brows knitting together in anticipation of pain, but I know it's all my my head, that's where I'm trapped, it's all starting again. _I mustn't fall asleep._

_Sherlock?_

I blink, over and over again, and each time the living room comes to a clearer focus. Only after a few blinks do I notice Sherlock, inches away from me, knelt on the floor by my armchair's side. He seems torn between leaning closer and not further distressing me at this state.

'John, are you with me?' he asks me, point-blank. As I nod sharply, I'm wondering if he can believe my answer. He might be somewhat suspicious, for he presses his lips thinner and his grey-green eyes grow colder.

'Told you to get _that_', he swirls an outstretched finger in a vague gesture my way, 'under control. Why won't you ever listen, John?' He goes as far as to roll his eyes, as he gets up, jittery and upset.

I clear my throat, _so_ ready to set him straight...

'Must have deleted _that_', I fight back, full of sarcasm.

'Fine, none of us is perfect', he completely misses the jab.

I sigh. Only then do I realise that Sherlock's tantrum was so unexpected that it helped pulling me out of my shell, breaking the nightmare's vivid impression that normally looms over me for hours.

_Did he do it on purpose?_

'I'm sure it's time, John!' Sherlock continues, excitedly, as ge nervously paces around the room.

I nod, transfixed on his contained burst of energy, before I realise I don't even know what I'm consenting to. _With Sherlock, it could be dangerous._ Good. 'Wait, what? Time for what?'

My friend rolls his eyes yet again, as if it's particularly obvious or I'm particularly daft, and gently grabbing me by the arm he pushes me away from my armchair. I follow him with stumbling footsteps, trying to match his energy, never breaking that connection. _I'm too curious to put a stop to this._

Anything to help keep the nightmares at bay.

'John, I need you to trust me.'

_When don't I?_

'What do you want me to do?' I ask, calmly, compliantly.

His smile deepens, becoming warmer and kinder. That he hears no protest from me is a proof of friendship and a vote of confidence, in his eyes. Both of which I'm happy to give my mad friend any time.

'Here, have a seat, John.'

_Missing chair located_, I realise with a soft smirk. Somewhere inside the mechanical debris that litters the dining room table and its close vicinity, there hides one of the chairs, to which Sherlock is leading me.

'My armchair I not that uncomfortable, Sherlock', I mutter at once, glancing over my shoulder to my favourite piece if furniture in the room. 'Sure the springs have long gone, but—'

He frowns, letting me know wordlessly that I'm way off. Making sure I seat down he hurriedly makes his way to the opposite side of the bulky contraption, where he must find the other chair, for he lowers himself to the machine and I can't see him anymore.

'Ready, John?' He asks me in a loud, clear voice. Sounding excited, happy, defiant, adventurous and heroic all at once.

'Yeah.' I shrug.

'Hold on, John. You really don't want to fall or get lost!'

_What's that?_ I'm about to tell him I don't feel like playing his silly theatrical game — I should get myself to bed and give in to a restless night as I'm used to — when I get the distinct impression that the flat's walls and floor are shaking.

Earthquake? In London? Oh, my god, it's not supposed to happen in London! Are the emergency services trained? They must be. They might need me! Sherlock might need me!

'Sherlock, hang on!' I shout, and sound terrified even to me.

'Not to worry, it's the equalizer that takes somewhat longer to set up!'

_Equalizer?_ Doesn't he know there's an earthquake? ...Come to think of it, there's no special noise outside the window, the city is reacting normally. It can't be an earthquake! That only leaves—

'Sherlock! What are you doing?'

'Trust me, John!' he shouts back, overly confident. I groan, readying myself for the unknown.

_Where Sherlock goes, I'll always follow._

_**.**_

'I don't get it. It didn't work', Sherlock states calmly in an eerily subdued voice. Around us, 221B has returned to its normal still fashion, not shaking or trembling anymore. Some mugs and measuring cylinders have fallen off the kitchen table, shattering on the linoleum floor. The tall lamp by the sofa has fallen over it, some small painting hanging by the door is lopsided, half of the stuff on the two shelving units by the fireplace is threatening to fall off the shelves' edge and even the bison head is looking bizarrely perpendicular from the wall. On the other side of the machine, Sherlock is staring ahead to no particular thing, and looks devastated by his little experiment's outcome.

'Sherlock?' I call out. 'What was this all about?'

He shakes his head briskly to shut me up, as if I'm breaking his frail trail of thoughts by intruding so carelessly.

'Unless...' he starts, filling up with hope. 'Oh!' he exclaims and dismounts the machine, running to the window pane. With a fast glance onto the street bellow, he seems to have his hopes shattered once again, and all his demeanour changes to a chagrined look, hopeless and defeated.

_My friend's mood swings are getting worse than ever._

I clear my throat and volunteer, hoping to bring him at least half as much comfort as he gives me with my regular nightmares. 'How about some tea, Sherlock?'

He faces me with hurt in his deep blue eyes; as if his world is crashing between his ears because _science is misbehaving_.

'It didn't work, John.'

I give him a supportive smile. 'I know. Better luck next time, Sherlock.'

'Next time?' he repeats, getting his hopes up again. 'Would you join me again?'

'Always', I vow, and it's the truth.

'Then I must rebuild.'

'Certainly. Although... You've never told me what it was for, Sherlock.'

His smile turns to a smirk. He enjoys keeping me curious, tailing along. 'You'll see.'

I fold my arms in front if me in fake anger. 'Oh, is it going to be like that?'

His smirk widens. 'Of course, John!' He admits. 'I'm not giving up so easily!' he declares, triumphantly. 'And you, John', he comes and grabs me by the arm again, 'you need to sleep while I fix the kinks out of the machine!' He's already pushing me alongside him, down the corridor.

'Sherlock, this is not my room!' I point out the obvious detail the genius is missing. _That's his room!_

'Fine, if you want to be _that_ picky', he concedes, unwillingly, and pushes me alongside him up the stairs instead.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	156. Chapter 156

_A/N: Indoor gardening done, and also a big part of my Sunday, let's get back to __**Part 3**__._

_Still don't know where this is going. If I have any references to go with it's the 40s and 50s sci-fi movies I watched when I was a child. And books of Jules Verne, H.G. Wells and such authors. In other words, I'm pretty much free-falling here._

_Next chapters may take longer as they're not sketched yet._

_Still not British, a writer or a time-traveller from the future. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Woke up with a vague notion that a timely nightmare had come to rouse me in the nick of time. This doomsday feeling is easily explained by the shattering vivid memories bursting from within me, but I know my own instinct's accuracy and feel at once that I can't dispel its forewarning without making sure all is indeed well. Patrol 221B, check the door is locked, make sure no forgotten science experiment of Sherlock is leaking biohazard material onto the floor, no ninja hitman lurks outside on the street within sight from the living room's windows; the usual lot.

_Sometimes the nightmares can make me slightly paranoid. The grounding routine of double checking we're secure helps to ground the soldier in me._

_It didn't help that there actually once was a real ninja hitman out in the street, trying to make his way in, after Sherlock._

I descend the stairs calmly, trying not to creak the steps until I know for sure that tonight isn't a night when Sherlock actually decided to sleep. His body is so sleep deprived that he gets really confused if he's woken up, and it takes him a few good minutes to actually speak coherently and making good sense.

Tonight, I'm not that lucky.

Swirls of thick smoke cloud 221B, coming from Sherlock's fantastic experiment. Amongst the white fog, I can see the dark unruly curls and funny goggles of my good friend, and hasten to put an end to his dangerous exploits. 'Sherlock, what the hell—?'

I jump the last few steps and rush into the room, headfirst into danger. With no answer, I approach the contraption, and haste around it, so to face my friend. I find him completely immobile and ignoring the heavy (toxic) fumes, staring ahead blankly in determination. If he even heard me, he's making a good impression of ignoring me, and my worry deepens at once. 'Sherlock!' No use. I groan as soon as I realise I must take matters into my own hands. I need to rescue my friend from his genius, before he asphyxiates himself in this smoke. With him not reacting to my call, I mount the insanely monstrous piece of machinery through the opposite side, from where it mechanically spills onto the floor, over the living room chairs. Maybe if I can stop it, I can snap him out of his seemingly hypnotized state.

'Sherlock, will you stop this dangerous contraption already?' I shout, as I struggle to make sense of the complex machine laid out before and around me.

Through a void space in the monstrous machine I can see a flicker of my friend's head. As if knowing he's being observed, the mad scientist's only reaction is a flickering glance my way, before his lips quirk into a smile and he leisurely volunteers: 'Glad you could join me, John. We are ready for blast off.'

I frown, missing the meaning behind his words, as he pulls down a lever with determination. Immediately the whole ghastly machine starts humming and vibrating. Sherlock dons his goggles over the eyes — safety first — as I belatedly take notice of a safety belt on the wooden chair seat. _What the—?_

The vibrations deepen and I find myself sitting straighter, so not fall down from the chair, and holding on to the hard seat. Is it possible that the whole flat is shaking again? This time I know it's not a natural catastrophe, but Sherlock-made. At the same time the machine keeps to its huffs and puffs, releasing the white smoke that thickens by the second. I can hardly make sense of the wallpapers motif through all the smoke let put by this draconian machine Sherlock desperately tries to tame.

_**.**_

After rushing downstairs so to try to catch our breaths with fresh air, Sherlock and I stand dumbstruck at 221B Baker Street's door, looking out onto the Victorian age scenario outside. The hansoms with conductors in uniforms and horses clapping their horseshoes on the stone pavement, the cold damp atmosphere of the river mingling with the dark smoky industrial revolution effluents, rushed bare feet children in shabby clothes running around in a stark contrast with the idle walks of gentlemen and the noisy merchandise preaching from the portable stall vendors. I take it all in with shock, then slowly turn to Sherlock, to gage his reaction as well. I find him raising his goggles slowly as if doubting his eyesight as much as I am. _Oh, crap. This is real._

'What have you done, Sherlock?' I lament with a sigh.

My friend's frown deepens. '221B didn't change. Everything around it travelled in time, so 221B should have done the same. This - doesn't - make - sense!' he protests against all the time traveller's science magazines he must have read to pick up on these time travel rules... I find myself muttering sarcastically as well as death staring at my friend. His unsure gait only highlights the risks he accepted for the both of us.

I feel more and more angered by the second.

'That, Sherlock, is hardly what DOESN'T MAKE SENSE HERE!' I end up yelling at him. Suddenly I drop my voice to a hissed murmur between us to add: 'We're 21st century people in the 19th century, or have you forgotten that?' Then, with a cold feeling sinking in my stomach I realise: 'Sherlock, are we... dead?'

He whiplashes his neck towards me.

'Don't be silly, John. We're breathing. Well, you're gasping. Dead people don't breathe. You are a doctor, you should know that much...'

His cold reasoning approach to this new shocking reality we have dove into grounds me momentarily.

'No, of course. Not dead. But then... How do you explain this?' I gesture towards this strange London.

'Time travelling', he states simply.

_So it's true._ Not paid actors on a movie set or an elaborate joke played on me. I clutch my hands by my side, tense. My guesses would have been far better because I could have put an easy end to this.

'This is what your mysterious machine was for all along?'

'Of course. I thought the calender dial on the control panel was a major giveaway, John', he tells me, humouredly.

I raise my eyebrows, feeling deflated. 'Can they see us?' I start to worry, more practical, with a tight whisper.

We both stare at a passerby, a lady in a long frocked Victorian dress that glances at us and suddenly looking very frightened, scurries off.

'Yes, they can see us', Sherlock concludes calmly. 'I'd say they must think we're not proper gentleman, dressed so funnily.' I glance at the mad detective. He's all seriousness.

'These are regular clothes.'

'For our times, yes', he leads me on.

'We need stuffy old clothes', I realise. 'I don't suppose you thought of that.'

'Oh, I think I can manage something...' he admits. Then, sensing my anger levels rising again (Sherlock's premeditation becoming so obvious), he agrees: 'Mrs Hudson offered you a room upstairs from me. You can't possibly have failed to notice your bedroom isn't the only room on the entire floor...' he scolds me.

'It was the one she had for renting, Sherlock', I remind him in a tight whisper. 'I wouldn't know what she keeps behind those locked doors!'

He smirks at once. 'So you did try to open them', he points out the flaw on my righteousness. If I know they're locked, then I must have tried to open them at some point.

'I'm human, of course I became curious!' I defend.

'Well, I picked the locks and went ahead moving a few spare things of mine that could come in handy sometime', Sherlock tells me, aloof.

'Does Mrs Hudson even know?' I hope he's told her, at least.

'It's her house. She'd be a bad landlady if she didn't know what goes on in her own property...'

I'm not listening to Sherlock anymore; I've rushed back into the unchanged 221 Baker Street, desperate to find our dear Mrs Hudson, and make sure she's safe.

_**.**_

'Mrs Hudson!' I shout as soon as I reach her flowery wallpapered kitchen. She's quietly sitting down by her butterflies tea pot, with milk, sugar and ginger biscuits.

'John, what on earth is wrong?' she asks me back, to all accounts looking startled by my shouting. Sherlock comes in right after me.

'Oh, goodie!' I hear him murmur approvingly. He's fond of her. I glance back at him, over my shoulder, but — no, first I need to assure Mrs Hudson that all is well:

'Don't be alarmed, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock and I will put it all back the way it was in no time. The thing is...' I hesitate on how to give the older lady such a shock.

'John doesn't know how to do what he's just promised', Sherlock meddles childishly. I glance over my shoulder again, darkly.

Our landlady is shaking her head with a kind smile on her lips. 'John, if this is about the time travelling, I already know about that, dear.' My jaw almost drops literally at her casualness. 'Of course I know. There are windows in this flat... I heard a loud bang, then all sounds were rushing like in a whirlwind, and when they slowed down I stopped hearing cars and sirens in the traffic outside. Instead I heard horses' hoofs on cobble stones. That was quite a tell, John, that our time had changed... Oh, John, love, you look so pale. Why don't you have a seat? I made a fresh pot and there's enough tea for the three of us', the imperturbable lady volunteers kindly. 'It's just the three of us, innit? No clients travelling along upstairs?' she asks Sherlock directly, and then glances at the tea pot.

For the third time I glance back at Sherlock. He looks all smug as if Mrs Hudson's tranquility is all the evidence he needs to prove that I'm overreacting. I groan inwardly and opt to take a seat on the nearest chair.

'You're not upset to be taken back to... the past?' I ask her, with uncertain voice.

'Not my past, deary, I'm not _that_ old, you know... What's the year, by the way?'

I realise I haven't got a clue. We've been transported in time by Sherlock, and we're totally dependant on his help outside this time-continuum that 221 Baker Street has become.

_We're in so much trouble..._

Sherlock looks untroubled as he's taken his phone from his pocket and he's studying it. '1895, it would appear', he answers Mrs Hudson's query.

'Thanks, Sherlock.' And she smiles at him. 'See, John? There's nothing to worry about. Sherlock's got it all under control.'

I blink, speechless, then finally verbalize: 'How can your phone update the date with no internet or network?' I'm dumbstruck.

The mad genius rolls his eyes at my distrust. 'It's an app. I created it. It's synchronised with the time machine upstairs.'

'Oh.' Like I should have thought of that.

'And how are you going to charge your phone?'

'Solar power cells. I bought them in bulk', he answers dutifully.

'You didn't believe 221B would remain unchanged', I remind him.

'I planned to make batteries out of lemons and electrodes. By the way, we may have an excess of lemons under the living room table. If they don't get all used, I hope you like lemon drizzle cake. Mrs Hudson is an excellent baker.'

I sigh, not sure if Sherlock can be trusted to be serious or not anymore. Sherlock's scientific streak exhausts me so much these days...

_**.**_

Sherlock got us stuck in a time when we hadn't even been born. Of course I tried going back. Or, more accurately, I screamed at my mad friend that he needed to get us back _when_ we belonged, immediately. To no avail, the intricate machinery with its delicate time-space-continuum disruption wave emitter is broken.

Having failed to follow common sense (and return _home_ to its proper time frame) I had no other option than to consider why Sherlock had done this to us. On purpose. Deceiving me. Craftily executed. Carefully premeditated, time invested, mind-blowing genius at work. _Because Sherlock is a genius, even if a deceitful at the best of times._

After half an hour of sulky silence where are tried to wrap my head around the _mess_ Sherlock has made, I feel calmer and more understanding. I'm actually somewhat curious now, and I genuinely want to understand his motivation. Again I ask him the same question, this time easy on the sarcasm and reserve:

'Why have you done this to us?'

Sherlock's been stoically quiet, taking a seat on his armchair with long fingers stapled in front of his chin, in his usual thinking pose. Either waiting for me to cool down my head or to insult him to the full extent of my heart's desire. All I can tell is that he seemed all at home with my anger and then overly surprised with my newfound tranquillity. He focuses on me (for the first time in a long stretch) with deep blue eyes and an innocently pleased expression. 'John?' He seems caught off guard, as if he didn't expect my forgiveness to come by so easily.

_That's proof enough that he knew he was deceiving me. He must have known beforehand how ticked off I would be._

_Something made him believe an end result was more pressing than my inevitable anger._

I sigh again, further releasing tension from my shoulders. 'I'm asking you why, Sherlock. There must be a reason for this time and place. Well, at least _time_. That machine of yours transported us in time.' _Still feels foreign to admit this out loud._ 'Towards the past. To a time when none of us existed. At least we wont have to go around running from our past selves in order not to shatter the time fluidity line — or whatever you call it. That is true, isn't it? Like in the movies?' _He's looking blankly at me, all modern cultural references lost on the reclusive non-mainstream genius._ 'No matter now. These aren't planned holidays. _I know you, Sherlock. _There must be a reason. Well, _sorry_. I mean, there must be at least one reason, probably quite a few all at once, possibly in the dozens', I correct with my first genuine smile after we've got here.

The usually loquacious genius is oddly mute as he keeps staring at me with big puzzled eyes. 'You're not... upset anymore?' He lifts his eyebrows in surprise, then ponders: 'Remarkable.'

'Still a bit upset', I warn him, fairly. 'I can't turn it on and off like a tap. Working on it, though. But now I want to know _why_. I can appreciate you decided to be smart and brought me along on this dangerous journey. I can also guess you thought I'd say _no_ to this _experiment_. Otherwise, you'd have told me about it. Asked me to come along.'

'I always assume you come, John', Sherlock tells me.

_True._ 'I always do.' _Also true._

'John, you had other pressing concerns.'

'My nightmares?'

He nods. 'Not fair to overburden you. Make you sensibly list to me all your concerns over this project — it's a _project_, not an experiment, John — while I worked on the transportation device. It was... nicer this way. We both enjoyed it more. I worked and you relaxed, every night you came downstairs. I liked our little routine so much I didn't want to spoil it.'

I sigh. This time, the tension is crawling back up my shoulders. Although I can recognise Sherlock's intentions came from a good place, the way he generously goes about them is never straightforward. And scarcely commendable.

'I get it', I tell him out loud. _Heavens forgive me, I really do._ And I enjoy the childish smile of pure joy that he fights off his face.

_I'm an enabler at heart._

'Look', I start again, 'will you let me in on your case, Sherlock?'

'Wouldn't make do without my blogger', he tells me fondly.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	157. Chapter 157

_A/N: Really sorry for the delay. Real life and all that... __**Part 4**__ of, well, several. Still not British, a writer, or a Time traveller. –csf_

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_**.**_

_Sometimes I could swear Sherlock is enjoying this too much._

There's a childish and mischievous smile that my friend tries to repress with limited success, as we climb the stairs to the floor above 221B. Obviously, my room is included in the 221B package and is located just at the top of the stairs. The other rooms, however, have always been Mrs Hudson's territory. For some reason – damp on the walls, usage for storage, creaking floorboards, faulty locks on the doors, or just the close proximity of a difficult consulting genius – she has always sensed the trouble in renting those rooms out and, as far as I know, she never actually tried. Sherlock pays good money for the rent and makes up for a very intense tenant, plus he's good company for the otherwise alone older lady. I believe Mrs Hudson quite prefers Sherlock close by, instead of half a dozen strangers as tenants renting the place by rooms and earning her a little fortune in busy London centre. So, as far as I can guess, these rooms never get used, apart from being occasionally aired by Mrs Hudson and usurped by Sherlock.

'You have a whole floor to yourself, John', Sherlock interrupts my thoughts. 'Yet I went ahead and put here a number of useful items and you've never even noticed.'

I shrug. 'I go to work, I go shopping for groceries, I'm always leaving the house while you stay behind. I assume it was easy for you to do all that behind my back.'

The detective sighs loudly. 'You never noticed the thread marks over the dust of the floor or that scrape at the wallpaper at the end of the stairs.' I follow his gaze and spot a minor scratch. Clutching my hands at my side, I fight the urge to go there are smooth out the wallpaper. _This is Baker Street, it's home._

'No, never', I agree. He rolls his eyes in exaggeration.

'I made that scrape, carrying a rather heavy and large parcel, John, while you were at the post office.'

_Getting him another large parcel, yes. I just never really wondered where all those boxes were going to. I guess I'm just so used to Sherlock's crazy ways that I stopped questioning. And that apathy, more than anything, must have driven my friend mad..._ I end up frowning. 'While I was out getting you another package', I summarize.

'Yes, I got that one up too, while you were having a shower.'

'So, you filled these other rooms while I was busy? Always behind my back? You really didn't intend to bring me along with you, did you, Sherlock?' I confront my friend. 'You kept your Time machine a secret, so you'd be able to take off without me. And I wouldn't even know you had been away, right? You'd just come back on the same day you left me behind.'

He looks guilty, as he corrects, for scientific accuracy: 'It doesn't quite work that way. The Time line we live is unchangeable. That means that if we regress in time for a period of two days, when we go back it's two days later from when we started off. To our friends we have just disappeared and reappear without explanation. We can't travel along our own life time, John. We can't go to our future or our past, and we most certainly can't change it.'

I blink. 'So, all those movies were wrong?'

He looks blankly at me. 'Movies?'

I don't think he ever watched them. Forget about that. This is the Victorian era, none of us was here at the time.

'And we can't change Space', I understand. This is still London.

He shrugs minutely. 'I didn't build that part. No need.'

_Oh._ 'And if we change the Past? Is it true we can't change the Past?'

'We better not. Never can tell the repercussions down the Time line. We may get stuck in the Past, with no home to return to.'

'But we'd live here, we'd be okay?' I realise, with some surprise.

'The Machine is not a time evasion mechanism, John. If you commit a crime and get sentenced to prison, this is not a "get out of jail free" card, where you get to go live somewhere else. We are woefully unprepared to live in this day in age and we'd most likely get the plague, or some other disease our lives have not prepared us to, and we'd not know how to properly have a trade, thus being likely to fall on extreme poverty, and—'

'Okay, okay... I don't really want to live in a time where there are no modern comforts. I was just asking...' I raise my hands in appeasing rendition. 'I'm just trying to understand the rules.'

'Rules?' he raises his eyebrows in surprise.

'Yes, Sherlock. Rules for Time travelling.'

'Rules are boring', he reminds me with a shoulder shrug and an indifferent attitude. But even I know it's for show. He wouldn't risk getting us stuck in this Time. I turn my attention to my wristwatch, realising it's all wrong and I can't trust it.

I hear my friend mutter: 'I meant to keep you protected, John, when I envisioned coming without you. We've come to a rogue Time. It can be dangerous and treacherous. I didn't want to bring you until I had successfully proven that it was safe enough.'

Clearing my throat I argue back: 'I'm glad you changed your mind in the end. I don't want to be protected or safe, Sherlock. I don't want to be left out. You need to trust me enough to let me chose for myself.'

He nods, still all aloof, as much as if he could be having a brief muscular spasm, totally unrelated. My confidence in Sherlock never abates and I know he understood my message.

Smirking and looking all around, I change the subject, trying to catch my friend by surprise – I'm not that daft as he sometimes thinks of me: 'Sherlock, if you didn't think 221 would travel in time with us, why did you leave upstairs from the machine all the clothes we'll need to look the part?'

He focuses clear blue eyes on me with a piercing intensity. He prolongs his silence just a second short of uncomfortable, before snapping back and explaining: 'Because in the end my plan was to sneak in and sneak out of this Victorian London like shadows in the night. However, I've changed my mind and reverted back to the original plan. John, we shall... _mingle_.' That last word does not come out pleasantly for the socially isolated genius. It's reckless, dangerous, mad; to show ourselves and really immerge ourselves in these old times London – and I'm grateful for the chance to do just that.

Sherlock bodily pushes open the stubborn door to the front room to let us in. 'Remember, John, our mere presence here is already disrupting the Time continuum. We must make sure that the small changes we produce during our stay in the Past don't have a rippling effect that changes our Present, or even erases us from it.'

Deepening my hands on my pockets, I recall: 'The whole "don't squash a bug because it may turn out that beetles are ruling the Earth when you get back" thing?'

Sherlock blinks once, twice, as he stares blankly at me. 'I suppose', he answers unsurely. Cultural references are often lost on my friend. He deleted them a long time ago.

I have a good look at the room instead. Striking and mismatched wallpaper and almost no furniture in it. It's dominated by piles of boxes and quite a few clothes racks that capture an unpleasant thick smell of moth balls.

'This is not Time travelling, Sherlock', I reproach, 'this is more like time emigrating, with all these antique equivalents of your entire wardrobe.' _He's a vain git and this is the final proof._ 'Is there anything that might fit me?'

He rolls his eyes at me, with putting his heart in it. 'Don't be so vain', he accuses me. Either way, he's already handing me a white cotton shirt with a very starched collar. Looks to be about my size and I count myself lucky. Sherlock was never very good in the down-to-earth, everyday business affairs. It's amazing he got me clothes at all.

'Cheers, Sherlock. Got any trousers to go with it?' I feel like I'm pushing my luck now. 'Don't think what I have on is appropriate.' Track suit bottoms I was sleeping with, I mean.

He just points a lazy finger in the far out corner's direction.

Looks like I've got a full wardrobe too.

_Well, I suppose Sherlock thought this through after all..._

_**.**_

'Sherlock, I don't need a vest, I don't need an uncomfortable tie, and I most certainly don't need a gold chained pocket watch!' I tell him tersely, refusing to take part in his silly theatrical charade. The highly intelligent scientist has been too rigorous in his approach to period wardrobe. These clothes are itchy, tight and _too much_.

'You're a doctor, John. One would expect little else from a doctor in Victorian London', he remarks stubbornly. 'And although you are not particularly fashionable as proven by your two piece suits (and your taste in cable knit jumpers is questionable if endearing), I'd not expect any less from a tidy, neat, borderline compulsive man like you, who never fails to button-up his ironed shirts, tie his shoelaces with two equal length pieces, and always wears matching socks.' I look down on my feet with amusement. 'John, I've simply translated your more relaxed choice of wardrobe from our times to what was available at the costume shop.' I prepare to protest at once. _Costume shop? This is a costume?_ He immediately assures me: 'They are very realistic with their work, John.' I groan. _Why did I let him dress me up?_ Sherlock loses his patience altogether in a snap. 'Don't be so fidgety, John! What is wrong with that jacket now?'

_It's too tight and pulls at my bummed shoulder._ Victorian London is also colder and damper. That's a bad conjunction for my shoulder and it's taking me some effort to keep my discomfort concealed from my ever-observant friend.

'Nothing', I assure my friend in a blatant lie. 'There's nothing wrong with the jacket that 120 years, give or take, can't fix.'

My friend just roll his eyes, speechless.

_**. **_

With a feline grade of groomed appearance, Sherlock Holmes is looking pristine in his Victorian gentleman outfit and I'm... passable, I assume. With Mrs Hudson staying indoors and insisting on milling about with the fireplaces at 221B (all the electrics are down and so the central heating is also down), Sherlock and I are about to venture outside to this exciting and new London.

'Wait, Sherlock, where are we going?' I stop my friend.

'To a crime scene', he answers. _Sounds familiar._

'Murder?'

'Theft.'

'I thought we couldn't intervene because that would change the Past. I mean, _our_ past. This present Past.'

'We're witnesses', he agrees.

'That's it?' I hide my disappointment. We've come a long way as Time tourists to just stand and watch.

He smirks as he senses my mood. 'You know me, John, I like to keep some tricks up my sleeve. I trust I can still surprise you in Victorian London.'

_I wonder what he means by that..._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	158. Chapter 158

_A/N: Not that, in a gathering with friends __the other day__, __what a__ conversation the astrophysicist brought up hasn't really made me understand that I shouldn't be making up stuff about time-space continuums, or anything... __**Part 5**__ of Several__. Still not British, a writer, or a Time traveller.__ -csf_

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_**.**_

Saying the London I know so well has "changed" is somewhat of an understatement.

The smokiness in the air as we walk the streets – so far no one seems to tell us apart in the busy city dwellers given that Sherlock took care that we'd look the part – is extracted from the multiple chimneys that outline the urban silhouettes of the rooftops. The smoke is so thick, coming to midday, that the sunlight filtering through the consequent fog is dimmed. It gives the cobble stone streets an eerie feel to them. Every house seems to be dependent on lighting their fireplaces for heating and they spew dark carbon combustion smoke through the multiple chimneys across each slated sloped rooftop.

Small, steady pools of light above our heads are centred on the gas streetlamps, lit already – or still – even though it's the middle of the day. Most of the older houses rely on wood burning and wax candles for the smooth running of everyday tasks. The more modern ones have adjusted to gas fittings and the steady flame light shines brighter through the heavy curtained windows. Electrics are fickle and unpredictable, and still only now spreading across the city. A modern curiosity aimed at comfort, that some refuse to believe London will ever be dependent on to run its busy life.

On the road itself, traffic is composed of hansoms and small carriages, whether open and ornate, parading ladies and gentleman with silk umbrellas, or sombre closed ones, very much the precursors of London's black cabs from modernity.

Quite a few men in military uniforms, more garish and less practical, proud of their brass fittings and love for the kingdom. They loiter by the warm pub, some already quite drunk, in what seems to be the last few hours before leaving for deployment to somewhere far away. I guess some things don't quite change. It can make their fortune, if they're lucky enough, or it can change their lives forever, like it did mine. I end up looking away briskly, not wanting to think it through.

'Sherlock, hang on!' I plead with an eye roll, as I realise my mad and long-legged friend is already quite a few steps ahead of me, and gaining distance.

Call me clingy if you must, but I don't want to let Sherlock out of my sight. This is still a foreign setting, with hidden dangers of magnitudes unforeseen. I will not allow myself the mistake of thinking life was simpler, healthier, in the old days, and thus less dangerous. That's a blatant lie. Plenty of dangers lurk in this London as well, and some made more dangerous by the fact that we are inexperienced to them.

Through all these drastic parallels, Baker Street remains our safe haven, the centre to return to if we get separated. We can take Baker Street for granted, and I'm grateful for that one refuge and constancy in my life.

'John', he mentions my name as soon as I catch up with him in a small run. No particular emotion to the word, as his entire demeanour is imprinted with fierce determination. This is the Sherlock Holmes I've grown so accustomed to, chasing a case and so pin-focused on it that all else becomes secondary. Even me, or this foreign London.

It just deepens this feeling that London has become a lot like a distant battlefield, and I shrug myself deeper inside this awkward waistcoat and jacket, pushing away a cold shiver.

'Where are we going, again?' I ask my friend.

He remains mute and secretive, and I know – I just _know_ – he's onto something.

_With Sherlock I can never tell what._

'We're here', he finally speaks, a few minutes of a quiet walk later. I've been having a good look at the street. Fresh new Victorian houses spell out tales of old and new fortunes, along with the exotic influences from the overseas colonies and trade, all lined-up in a row on the broad street track.

Sherlock gives me no more time to take it all in – he probably doesn't think it's important and he'd complain I'm romanticising the case again – as we approach the nearest house.

The dark mahogany door with the shiny brass fittings we come to face looks distinguished and respectable, and I find myself pondering it for a few seconds from a more fanciful point of view.

The detective beside me frowns and then exaggeratedly rolls his eyes at me. I pretend I didn't see that. He just rolls them an extra time. Sherlock _always_ needs to have the last word, even if a silent one. I glance back at him, making sure he knows he's being way too obvious. He shrugs minutely, daring me. I tilt my head towards the house while we wait for some response at the door. There's his mystery, _not me!_ Why is he always looking at me, keeping tabs on my responses; _not leaving me be?_ Finally Sherlock looks away, pretending a sudden interest in the small room we can glimpse through the street facing window.

A brief glance towards the morning room reveals a piano and some scores on a music stand. Bookshelves full of leather-bounded volumes, some ordered in groups like encyclopaedias, others just monographs, in a scholar's type of library. More whimsical are the souvenirs displayed on a curiosities cabinet, with clear Eastern influence, including small china figurines, metallic ornaments and objects made with colourful silks.

Sherlock stated a theft would occur here. Following rule #1 for Time travellers, we cannot disturb the Time continuum flow; which means we won't be able to stop the theft, or otherwise intervene. We're powerless spectators to a by-gone time.

_I assume Sherlock wants to know who did it. Or where the stolen object was taken to._ How all of this relates to the modern London we came from is beyond me.

'Sirs?'

The front door is opened by a shy-looking, dark toned young lady, in a maid uniform. Her gaze is clever and aged, however, even when overall she looks no older than a teenager.

'Pray, is the lord of the house at home?' Sherlock asks, in his most posh and cultivated accent.

She faces us like foreigners, none the less, and ponders us carefully before answering: 'I'm afraid the master is indisposed at the moment, Sir'. She excuses herself and starts closing the door on us. Sherlock mouth the word "debts" to me – as if that made perfect sense of us not being received as visitors – before exhibiting his best smile and insisting:

'I'm afraid we've been misunderstood. This gentleman by my side is Doctor John Hamish Watson. He is a most qualified physician. I'm afraid I must insist that Doctor Watson takes a look at your master for we believe it's the only way to save his life.'

_What? Sherlock!_

The maid is too much less startled than I am, by all accounts. She rakes me with a calculating gaze then addresses Sherlock: 'If he's a doctor like you say, then where the bag? I never saw no medic without a bag of tricks, _Sir_.'

I slowly face my friend. _Yes, Sherlock, where's my medical supplies bag? Did you get one from the costumes shop?_

Sherlock meets my gaze without strain. 'I'm afraid Doctor Watson can be quite forgetful', he excuses at once, holding his ground without as much as blinking. I decide to take pity on his blundered plan and help, closing my eyes at how many deontology rules I'm breaking:

'Is it true your master has recently travelled from the East?' _Silly word, "master"._ She grudgingly nods, and Sherlock holds in a warm smirk. _He saw it too._

_I know a Persian slipper when I see one, Sherlock. After all, you keep an odd decor at 221B and it sometimes hides your tobacco stash._

She nods, bewildered by our insight. Sherlock seals the deal, claiming: 'Doctor Watson has recently returned from the Middle East himself, where he's been studying foreign ailments, miss.'

She blinks then hastily pulls us inside. 'Don't tell a soul, please! The master is not well. I've been frightened he's losing his mind and I can't reason with him.' She carefully closes the door behind us, as we're finally a few steps into the house – in an overcrowded dark entrance, full of dated pieces and foreign curiosities. 'All night long the master is awake, all day long he's awake. He cannot sleep. He paces, back and forth, like a fiend! If I go and talk with him he screams at me, and throws things. He only leaves the house once in a while, and he's gone for over a day, and when he comes back all he wants to do is to sleep like a dead man. When he wakes up he's fired up again. I'm scared, doctor. Is it anything that can be cured?'

I glance at Sherlock. "Opium", he mouths silently, following my reasoning. Many men travelled to the East and returned slaves to an opium addiction. In fact, the man's exit from the house must lead him to the opium drug dens that were a fairly common sight at the back turns of Victorian London. Men and women spending their days in a drug induced haze and wasting their lives.

From the sound of it, the man of the house is experiencing paranoia and withdrawal symptoms. I sigh inwardly; there's not much I can do for him in Victorian London if the habit has already taken over. I remove my jacket and pull up my sleeves, readying myself to make the process as comfortable as possible for my patient.

At the far corner of my eye I see Sherlock nodding at me, as if assuring me this is going according to his plan.

_I should have suspected, when he decided to dress us up as a doctor and a gentleman. Does Sherlock even do something without a hidden motive?_

Some might say I comply too much with Sherlock's madness, but I'm a doctor at heart no matter the circumstances (or the time frame). _Sherlock is sure to know that too._

_**.**_

It's been over an hour and my friend Sherlock Holmes has hardly moved from his position across the room. In a relaxed stance over the long chair by the veranda window of Lord Chandler's room, he's been quiet as again I take the man's wrist to estimate his heart rhythm. The high maniac episode we came in to find him has quieted down quite fast (making us suspect of a small hidden stash of opium reserves somewhere in the room). As he plunged into the characteristic opium lethargy quite of his own making, the situation worked on our behalf to create trust from the maid and to make Lord Chandler positively apathetic to our presence in his personal rooms. True to my profession I've been keeping careful watch over the prostrated man's vital stats and assuring he doesn't crash after all the damage he's put his system through.

I rinse a damp cloth I've been using over the man's forehead to keep his fever running low and replace it with pondered gestures. Sherlock instructs the maid to fetch a new bowl of fresh water and we distractedly watch her leave us alone in the room for the first time.

Immediately Sherlock changes his entire demeanour. What was quiet and subdued before, even slightly reverential of the doctor working in the room, alters completely as he leans forward in a bursting bubble of uncontained energy. 'It's time, John!'

I'm completely taken by surprise. 'What do you mean?'

He snaps, short-tempered: 'Do you really prefer to play doctor at a time like this? The theft is about to happen downstairs!'

I glance at the patient, uncomfortable, my loyalty divided. _No, I came here, to this place in time, to help Sherlock._ And the patient is stable, as comfortable as I can make him.

'Let's go!' I straighten up, fighting to focus on the real goal. Sherlock smiles briefly as he turns away, as he can read in me my divided stance.

Climbing down the dark stained staircase in furtive steps, I whisper tightly to my friend: 'Do you really believe the maid is involved?'

'Of course. That's why she let us in, John. The more the merrier when it comes to diverging suspicions. Don't be naïve!'

'She seemed to care genuinely about her boss.'

'Yes. Not as much as she cares about her lover, though. He's the thief she's about to let in to the house.'

_It's a hell of an advantage to know the crimes in advance, I take due notice in the back of my mind._

We're interrupted by the sound of glass shattering downstairs. We dash to the end of the stairs and we hear it again. Sounds like a muffled fight, and it seems to be coming from the morning room at the front of the house. We glance at each other and we both spring to action, hurrying down those last steps.

The morning room's door has been left strangely open and in an instant we can see a chair and a coffee table turned over, and also the fallen silhouette of the young maid. I hasten to her side to make sense of her condition.

A small broken porcelain statuette by her side tells me she must have been struck and lost her senses with the blunt force trauma. She appears to be breathing slow but steadily, reassuring me.

'It's gone!' Sherlock says through gritted teeth, and I finally look over to my friend, who's rapidly browsing through the remaining contents an abandoned jewellery box.

'What's gone?' I realise I don't even know what's been stolen.

'The necklace, John!' Then he faces me over his shoulder, with bright grey eyes. 'Arguably one of the most valuable necklaces of the Victorian times.'

'Sherlock!' I call sharply, concealing the evident question withheld.

'Through the back door.'

I nod and accept what I must do. I leave first, allowing Sherlock to fall back, sleuthing some seconds longer.

Narrow corridors and winding paths around an excessive amount of furniture and decor pieces lead my way to the back of the house, where a humble door opens to the garden. Large shrubs, plenty of flowery perennials, some shaded spots under cast iron gazebos with climbing ivy prolong inwards the garden through the urban grid, masking it. I take it all in one breath and dismiss it in the next, as I return to my search of the thief, who is getting away fast. A small noise behind me calls my attention back to the house walls and I finally recognise the acrobatic thief climbing up to a garden facing balcony on the upper floor. _Gotcha._ I step onto the closest window sill and grad onto the rainwater pipe, hoisting myself up. _The chase is on._

From the balcony railing the thief gets hold of the slated roof and I follow his choices. As I'm already steadying myself upright in the roof's edge, Sherlock shows up at the balcony I left behind, looking bewildered. 'John?' I guess he was just looking for a high point to supervise the grounds bellow and find me, us.

'Well, hurry up, mate!' I protest at once, out of breath. The monkey-like thief is already reaching the adjacent roof from next door. In Sherlock's defence, he doesn't stop to question his safety or his life choice. Immediately he follows me in this mad chase.

With a jolt of adrenaline I realise this London has never really changed. We're Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, rushing after criminals, setting wrongs right, looking for the truth under the lies. As I'm rushing high on the Victorian urban landscape, the buildings and street grids are remarkably familiar. Climbing Georgian façades, reaching the summit of rooftops and overlooking the bustling city, as only few men ever have done. It's both illicit, and dangerous, and oddly tantalising. I feel the grip of this life-threatening reality and it brings out a deep smile in me. I'm unabashed that Sherlock was so right when he foresaw my need for danger, he must be drinking them in with pride, with genuine happiness for his ability to make me feel this alive, this whole, this meaningful. _He sets me right._

Daringly, I venture forth. Even higher, as I'm getting the hang of the dark slated roofing our criminal is pushing through.

'John!' Sherlock calls me sharply from the balcony bellow. As I glance over my shoulder to see what is keeping him back, I see his smile has broken somewhat, looking now more like a static copy of its true expression. He's more guarded, fearful even, as he thinks he's losing his grip on me. That I'm risking too much. _It could make me laugh; Sherlock as the pondered one in our friendship, for once._

Suddenly the thief is circling a precarious looking chimney and I sever my gaze to Sherlock in order to regain some of the lost ground. I too grab hold of the mossy chimney stones and push myself over it, only my foot loses grip, and suddenly I'm hitting the dark slate tiles on the angled roof, and I try to catch myself but instead I lose touch with the roof altogether, and I hear Sherlock's mad cry of my name, but I can't grasp anything anymore, I can hardly hold on to his cry either, until I hit the ground painfully, the full force of my fall slamming me against the horizontal surface.

My fall is somewhat softened by the mud on the ground where I now lay immobile, trying to gather my senses one by one.

I glance upwards to the rooftop out of sheer stubbornness. _He's getting away._ Painfully clutching at my side in the soggy grounds way below the escape route rooftops, I can't bring myself to get up, I can't bring myself to stop the theft anymore.

'John!' Sherlock calls out from the balcony, frantic. He looks white as a ghost.

My vision swims in front of me.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry, Sherlock, he got away" becomes my murmured mantra through gritted teeth as I try to take hold of my breathing enough so I can have another go at getting up.

'John!' It's Sherlock again, and I'm taken by surprise that he's so close now, kneeling on the mud and leaning over me. _He looks as pained as me._

'He got... away', I mutter again.

'He wasn't to be stopped. We came here to watch, John!'

Oh, I got hurt for no reason. _Stupid._ I groan in a painful gasp I can no longer keep hidden inside me.

I hastened to follow the criminal, all caution thrown out of the window, because that's what we do. Old embedded patterns are too strong. But he wasn't to be stopped; he wasn't supposed to have seen us either.

'We need to retrieve the necklace and give it back to the maid, Sherlock insists, slightly out of breath. _His rationality is the only thing keeping him together right now._ 'We need to fix this and resume the past events as they have been recorded for posterity. The lover is to be the real thief, not this opportunistic thief!'

_Easier said than done._ This man is an acrobat, by all accounts, and judging by the way he ran away in a death defying act of his own.

'John?'

Sherlock looks very unsure now.

'Who was... that guy?'

'Don't know', Sherlock dismisses as if all that mattered to him was me, right now. _Not even rationality alone can fix this mess. _'He must have tried to steal the necklace too, only arrived too late in Our Past. In this Past we've delayed the maid and so he got the chance to steal it first. This is... catastrophic, John. We must set this right.' I nod with some effort. 'We need to set you right too', Sherlock adds, more to the point. 'Can you diagnose yourself?'

I can try. But not here. In some dirt ridden side alley, smelly and dark.

'Baker Street, please. I want to go back home', I plead.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	159. Chapter 159

_A/N: It's been a strenuous week (more?) and I've dedicated myself to this "writing fan fiction thing" as a healing process. I've got two small plots on the waiting list to post, after this is done. Untill then, here's __**Part 6**__ of the Time travelling sequence. Thanks for accommodating my weird schedules, coming back, or popping in. Still not British, a writer, or anything other than myself. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'John, you're shaking.'

I try to deny Sherlock's honest and straightforward observation but my headshake almost gets lost in my body's light trembling. I don't want to face it yet, but deep down I know this is not medically advisable. It puts a time constraint in my participation alongside Sherlock's Time travelling. My strengths are fading and I'm narrowly avoiding falling into shock.

It's as true in Victorian London as it would be in our modern world.

Falling from a rooftop will do this to you.

Luckily I managed to pull all my strengths together and got up on unstable legs. Sherlock immediately took my side and supported me as much ad he could. Unfortunately this position of his is much to near for me to disguise my trembling.

'Am not shaking', I still lie altogether.

'You need a doctor, doctor Watson', he points out more tense than humouredly, but trying to keep it light, to keep it together.

_Impossible._ 'We don't exist here, Sherlock. I can't go to a hospital.'

Sherlock frowns as if my logic is compromised. Perhaps it is, I start to understand as soon as he explains: 'There are no centralised data bases, John. Just say your real name and they'll write it down. No Time continuum will be disrupted.'

'No', I insist stubbornly.

He looks embarrassed all of a sudden. For the life of me I can't understand a reason why he should be embarrassed.

'I can't fix you, John. I'm not a doctor.'

'I am, so I tell you I don't need one', I jump at the occasion, almost offered to me.

'Why do you distrust doctors so much?' he asks me softly, puzzled, with a hint of amusement for the paradox I am; a doctor refusing doctor's help.

'They're a few decades in to properly disinfecting equipment and they've just started on chloroform. I won't have that', I tell him. And it's final, it's settled, that's it.

'Why not?' Sherlock asks ever so softly. Of all the things I say, of all the things I mutter, he'd have to grab on to the more important ones?

'Not a good comeback from chloroform for a former soldier.' I fake a tight smile. 'I would scare half the hospital in no time. And say something inappropriate too. Plenty of expletives, of course, but I mean I would blab about the future. I don't have control, Sherlock, over what I say when I come out of an anaesthetic like chloroform. Or do. I once punched a nurse.' I fake a small laugh, it comes out bitter.

'John, you can't help that. It shouldn't be a reason to keep you from getting treatment.'

I shake my head once more. 'I can bear through it, Sherlock. Long enough for us to get home at least... Can't you see I'm up and walking already?'

He purses his lips thin as he refrains from commenting he's carrying so much of my weight as he supports me, that I'd fall on my face if he'd move away abruptly.

I grab on tighter to my friend's jacket after that thought.

He pauses on our slow, agonizing walk, looking at me full of a concern he won't disguise anymore. I hate this look on his face, and knowing I'm causing it.

'Just... Let's give this a chance, shall we? Half-hour rest and I'll join you in retrieving the necklace, as good as new, Sherlock', I promise impossible dreams.

He shakes his head minutely, more to himself than to any audience, and marks his words deliberately: 'Baker Street. Now.'

_**.**_

As soon as Sherlock closes 221's front door upon our entrance, there's a flurry of movement from 221A, and sure enough Mrs Hudson's voice is heard immediately:

'I do wish you'd let me know in advance the next time you transport this property in time, Sherlock. I didn't have the chance to go on errands yesterday and we're nearly out of milk. I don't suppose one of you could pop in to one of these old grocery stores and...' The old lady has been hastily exiting her flat, wriggling her hands dry on a tea towel, when she stops short with a dreadfully shocked expression, taking me in, with my temporary appearance. I'm sure there are bruises forming under the dirt, and my stance is not as proud as my military past has taught me. I take a moment for a deeper breath and try to stand on my own two feet. Sherlock hesitates to give me enough space, hoovering near me. I almost topple over. Luckily my friend grabs me at once, taking one arm around my back to my waist to keep me upright and splaying an open hand – ominously similar to a denial gesture – against my chest, over my heart, where he probably suspects I'm less battered.

Or he's taking a clever chance to measure my cardiac rhythm and breathing pattern.

'A chair, Mrs Hudson, please', he directs her calmly.

'What's next?' I joke. 'Undo my collar ends and a glass of brandy? Isn't that a classic of Victorian literature?'

'John, if you can't–' he starts, all serious. I cut him short:

'I'll be up those stairs in two minutes. Just... Let me catch my breath, will you?'

He nods, looking unsure, probably because he's got no other chance than to believe in the only doctor in the room.

I prefer to change the subject:

'You need to go after creepy chimney cleaner guy, he's got the necklace, Sherlock.'

Mrs Hudson is bringing one of her kitchen chairs, with a pink flowery cover, for me. I sink on it, gratefully.

'Oh, John', she laments me with the use of my birth name and a motherly tone of voice. 'How did you do this to yourself?'

'I tripped and fell, Mrs Hudson', I tell her with my best comforting smile. I hate to see her so worried about me.

'He fell from a rooftop', Sherlock adds for the love of scientific precision, looking around in the hallway as if inattentive to our interaction.

'Oh, John!' she gasps, and I send a deadly look my friend's way.

'Nothing to worry about', I add, knowing already that I'm losing the battle.

She turns to the mad detective as if she's about to tell him off, and instead points out, quite logically:

'Sherlock Holmes, you go upstairs immediately and put that Time machine of yours to work. Take us back to the Present right now, young man.'

'There's a necklace...' I start, shaking my head. _Sherlock can't leave this enormous mess behind. We've changed the Past._

'I'm not listening to you, John', she tells me without much heart. She looks so flustered and worried. 'Sherlock and I can come back here and put it all back the way it was, whatever the mess you've both made.'

I imagine frail Mrs Hudson being in a position where she'd have to run away from thieves, and it's not right or fair.

'No', I tell them both, quiet and stern. 'I can handle this. At least a while longer. Then, yes, I accept to be given a lift home. But not now. This is a dangerous place and I'm not leaving you alone here.'

'But, John, dear...'

'I'm quite sure, Mrs H', I tell her, my eyes set straight onto hers, and reaching out for her hands between mine. Her nodulous knuckles and thin fingers feeling so frail and precious between mine. I'll do anything to keep her safe. _After all, England would fall._

'No', she tells me of her own volition, surprising me with her sharp and assured tone of voice. In an instant her hands have slid off my grasp and enveloped mine, warming them, as a mother to her child. 'You'll do as I say, John, and not another word. We are going to get you in that machine and zapping you to the modern NHS system. No more arguments. You need x-rays and all that voodoo you doctors do all the time. All three of us are going', she adds as Sherlock is about to interject. 'After all, you have a Time machine. What's keeping you from returning only after John is recovered, onto exactly this day here, or even a few hours earlier?' Both Sherlock and I stare at each other, blank expressions and a lot of blinking going on. Mrs Hudson doesn't recognise her own genius and just leads on, insisting on convincing us: 'I don't suppose you can avoid John going onto that rooftop, or whatever the story is with that necklace, but it should give you time to come up with a good plan while John recuperates enough to stand himself straight.'

'I...' I start.

'Sounds like a good idea', Sherlock cuts me off with a kind smile to our landlady. 'Mrs Hudson, go to 221B. We need to assure that you return to the Present with us... Well, our Present, not this present, and.. You know what I mean. The English language was not built for Time travellers, assuredly.'

I try to call my friend's attention:

'Sherlock, is it wise? Are you sure you'll be able to return and fix this mess?'

He purses his lips thin in an awkward tell before he states, overly chirpy: 'Of course, John! I'm a scientist after all!'

_**.**_

Sherlock has insisted to lend his aviator goggles to Mrs Hudson, who's taking Sherlock's seat, ahead of the complicated control panel of the dreadful machine. Under this light of day, filtered through London's fog, it looks more and more like an upscale pile of junkyard sale. Or maybe I'm just resentful that I needed to climb into the chaotic construction to get to my seat, and it messed with my bruised sternum a bit too much. Sitting back, taking a few disguised quick breaths, I see Sherlock climbing onto his side of the Time machine and standing precariously on a narrow gap space behind Mrs Hudson's chair.

Sherlock glances sharply at me to gage my okay to go and leans over Mrs Hudson's shoulder to switch on mysterious buttons and levers at the control panel.

With a strange familiarity I see our homely 221B filling up with swirls of white smoke, as the floor and walls tremble faster and faster to respond to the greedy machine's appetite.

'Sherlock, what does this machine run on?' I ask out loud, worrying if he'll have enough fuel for all the scheduled travelling.

'It's... complicated, John!' he opts to keep his secrets.

'And how long have we been gone in the real world? Do we come back when we left?'

'Hardly a more "real" world than this one, as your injuries alone should testify, John! No, John, these few hours we've been here have also passed in our Time, without us. And all the damage you sport shall transport too. You see, besides the Universal Time Line – or UTL – we have our own Time, connected to our rhythms and ageing of our bodies that this machine cannot reverse. Wherever we are on the fluid UTL thanks to this travel apparatus, we, ourselves, are still under the rule of our own biological time!' Sherlock's speech has grown in intensity till he's just about shouting at the end of it. The infernal machine's huffs and puffs overlap our conversation, making it impossible. 'Ate you ready, John?' he still defies the noise.

'Just drive this thing, Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson snaps, looking genuinely excited.

I nod, giving my permission. I close my eyes and lean my head back, breathing deeply through a bout of nausea that the white smoke disguises to my friends.

_**.**_

'I d-don't understand!' Sherlock stutters under his breath, as he stares immobile out of the right hand side living room window.

'Open a window to clear out the smoke while you're there, will you?' I direct, trying to keep cool and collected.

The Time machine didn't work. We're stuck in the Past untill Sherlock can figure out what's wrong with it and repair it.

Mrs Hudson shakes her head regretfully, having already lifted Sherlock's borrowed goggles, and volunteers, like a true trooper:

'Why don't I go and cook you boys some dinner? A nice warm meal is what we all need before we go back to fixing that thing.' She doesn't really wait for an answer before heading off into our kitchen and searching our fridge and cupboards for edible items.

I notice she won't go back downstairs, her home, where she'd find comfort among her space and things. She chose to cook near us, instead, one more element present and accounted for in our Baker Street trio.

In the living room, Sherlock is wildly pacing around in circles on the scarce free space left over the carpet. He looks troubled and alienated, as he continuously mutters under his breath analysing every little part of the machine's built and what could have broken down.

Exhausted and drained, I appreciate truly that no matter the world outside the windows of Baker Street, this is still home, and it appeases me with a feeling of comfort and peace like no place else I know.

I drag myself to the long sofa and roll myself slowly till I'm lying as comfy as I can get, with my head on the brown tweed pillow and facing the back of the sofa.

I fall into a deep restorative slumber in less than a couple of minutes.

There's lots of catching up I need to do, due to my nightmares at night.

In the haze of those last moments of clarity of mind, I hear Sherlock lower himself towards me and murmur: 'It's okay, John. I figured it out. It's too early and the Time machine's batteries are still recharging. We just need to wait a while longer. It was a long journey here... Don't worry, John, I'll take you home, I promise.'

My last coherent thought is that Sherlock is wrong; I'm already home. I never left it long.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	160. Chapter 160

_A/N: Onto __**Part 7**__. A necessary chapter. Even in Victorian Sherlock Holmes stories there was always a large plot explanation portion. I guess I've fallen into that trap too. Next one's more dramatic (I guess I've been heading there all along). Still not British, a writer, or a Time traveller. (Or anything other than myself.) -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Like smugglers in the night, set on illicit comings and goings, Sherlock and I are determined to leave the safety of Baker Street once more, after dinner.

_We've got a Time travelling rule breaking to fix._

Mrs Hudson's dinner tastes wonderful (Sherlock's been appreciate of how my physical condition hasn't obviously spoiled my appetite) and all three of us share a meal at the kitchen table.

_The living room table, when not being used as a professional desk, is sometimes an alternative meal gathering site. Today it falls completely invisible to the naked eye, swallowed by a monstrous, stubborn, Time machine._

_A constant reminder that we've travelled so far for a reason._

'I wish you boys could just leave it be', Mrs Hudson tells us out of genuine worry. 'Going through all this trouble for a necklace... And what is the point of that? To know where a piece of jewellery got stashed away in the old times because it's been considered lost? That hardly sounds like one of your cases, Sherlock dear... Are you sure you're telling us everything?' the sly woman inquires with no ill feeling.

I see Sherlock crumbling under the pressure at once. The cold man who held strong as governments collapsed and royalty backtracked cannot stand one Martha Hudson's scrutiny.

_He cares too much for her to lie convincingly._

'Hm... Maybe... International intrigue and such... Mycroft is sure it can overthrow a small dictatorship on the rise...' Then, raising his chin proudly, he adds: 'And, also, my brother said I couldn't solve this case.'

I blink. _Sibling rivalry. That always seals the deal._

'What was that?' I raise my gaze directly at my friend, frozen, just darkly enough to make him uncomfortable. 'Sherlock...' I start, putting down the cutlery, 'who gave you the book?'

'I don't know what you're talking about', he says too fast.

'The book you used as a self-taught guide to "building you own Time machine", Sherlock. _That_ book.'

'Family heirloom', he claims. He's not even looking me in the eye.

I clear my throat and avoid asking more questions. Sherlock is clearly refusing answers.

He's got his gaze stuck on my abandoned food plate – I'm not hungry anymore – and it honestly looks like his analytical mind is calculating my calories intake or something of the sort.

Some uncomfortable silence falls on 221B's kitchen.

'Perhaps we should go, Sherlock', I suggest calmly.

He has a sharp intake of breath – as if resurfacing from his thoughts too fast – and fixes his impossibly light coloured eyes on me. I know he's overtly studying me, divided as to whether he should take me or leave me to rest at home. And if the latter would be the advisable thing to do given the aches and pains in trying to hide at the moment, being Sherlock Holmes without Watson has never been a pleasant choice for my friend since his comeback.

_And, of course, I have as much say on the matter as he does – if not stubbornly more._

'We must stick together, Sherlock', I further remind him. He nods at last.

'I shall keep you protected, John', he states lightly. But I know he means it as a promise.

_Well, don't make promises you can't keep, mate!_

_**.**_

Large stone vaults that no longer exist in our Time, or have become an integral part of the city's invisible support layers, are shining at their prime for us, in the Thames reflected moonlight. They serve the piers where the foreign merchandise arrives at London by ship. Exotic silks and spices are unloaded at the dock at all hours, side by side with survival goods being loaded for some foreign lands discovery expedition at the neighbouring ship. I half expect to see sea captains, and pirates and such characters, but this is the modern city, and all these transactions are as business-like as they would be in our Time. It still brings out a feeling of a magic time, where the knowledge of the world still grows in a palpable fashion. With no modern means of communication for these explorers, news of foreign lands will wait to be delivered upon return. Rumours and legends are free to coexist with the scientific reports of the expeditions pushing the boundaries of Knowledge of other less known continents. This is about discovering the world's extremes and empowering humanity through Science and Reason (Sherlock is sure to appreciate this) and bring it home in more of a romanticised fashion (as I'm often accused of doing by my rational friend). This époque of severe contrasts, where humanity is self-discovering in such a painfully obvious way, would have been a perfect setting for Sherlock Holmes and his blogger.

_Well, I suppose in the long run he'd miss all the information at his fingertips that his phone provides._

We get lost in the various cultural influences mixing together in the damp river margin. The bustling crowd working among the fog at the expanse of the full moon light and some torches seems almost entirely oblivious to our presence there.

'Sherlock, how did you know to come here?' I ask my friend, while discretely holding my elbow on folded arms in front of me. The river dampness is raising havoc with my recent injuries, and the sharp pain in my ribs (bruised, not cracked) is spreading to my frail left shoulder (rebuilt, very grumpy). Apart from the expected muscular aches that tell me I'm of no age to fall from a rooftop – not that there's an age for that – there are no painful signs of something more seriously wrong with me, and I'm thankful for my luck.

Sherlock glances minutely at me before answering briefly: 'No clues. Just logic. If you have a stolen necklace and don't plan to use it yourself, which undoubtedly our thief won't, then this is the place to sell it.'

'Jewellery shops?' I doubt it, looking around us.

'Money lenders, itinerant sailors, other thieves', he corrects me. 'Those are the ones who'll accept to receive stolen goods of high quality and will dispatch them to someone else. No respectable tradesman in the inner city could afford to buy a necklace that's been displayed in society so much as this one has.'

I frown. 'Who's was the necklace?'

'Late wife of your Victorian patient. There was a picture of her wearing it at the man's writing desk. Do keep up, John!'

_Oh, okay. Possibly. Didn't see it. I'll believe you._

'But if the maid was going to steal it, surely she could have just taken it herself and...'

'She's not leaving her job. She can't.'

I clear my throat. 'She should. It's not fair or safe, given her employer's level of addiction.'

Sherlock sighs. 'She's his illegitimate child, John. Did you not notice the family traits? She's one more curiosity he collected from India, brought up to be as British as possible.'

'He'd treat hid daughter as a maid? I can't believe it!' It's outrageous at best.

'I'm imagining that it was his late wife's prerogative, given that the girl is the living proof of an illegitimate affair in the Colony...' Then glancing at me, he adds: 'You noticed how much she cares for her addict father. It was hardly the sign of a faithful maid.'

I nod, still too shocked. _Sounds much like a scandalous romance novel from the moral Victorian times._

'Sherlock, is that why she was stealing the necklace? To safeguard a part of the family's fortune that the man is squandering away for opium?'

'You're the expert in the heart matters, John, but I'd say someone who's been starved for affection for so long will respond quite fiercely at the first crook who comes to offer her his love and a life of crime.'

I shake my head, stopping short. 'If you knew this already...' I start. 'Why did we need to come to the Past to witness it? What did you learn?'

Sherlock takes a deep breath. Under the bright gas lamps his face is glowing with intensity.

'There are no records of the bigger precious stones from the necklace ever resurfacing again. They seemed to be lost forever and the necklace vanished in History. That is, until a couple of years ago – our years, John – when the necklace was claimed to have been found and given the legend of having been assembled with precious stones raided from a mythical temple in a lost province of India. It became rumoured to have heaping powers, spiritual powers, the lot. And it's been used as a symbol for a small war elsewhere, that Mycroft believes will spread like wildfire on a politically unstable area. Now, if the necklace had never been lost and could, therefore, never be "found"...'

'They'll just find something else to fight over', I point out.

'Yes', Sherlock deadpans. 'And that's Mycroft's problem.'

'Your brother Mycroft asked you to solve this case.'

'Yes', Sherlock recognises. 'And I needed clues. Can't solve a mystery more than a century old with no clues to go over. Hence the need for a Time machine. That you obliged to come, John, was a happy addition.'

I smile to my awkward friend. 'I'm glad I could join in... Sherlock, why didn't you explain me the case beforehand?'

He shrugs. He particulars seemed to make little difference, and I told you the essential – a necklace about to be stolen.'

'I could have helped. Maybe if I had talked to the maid...'

'You would have been kind to her and changed the course of History. If anyone could do that, it would be you, John. Perhaps it was best this way, to assure our position as impassible observers.'

'I see', I must confess I understand his reason.

As we resume walking the cold damp riverside vaults I wonder: 'What now? This London is big enough to throw is off scent, Sherlock. We can't cover all ground.'

'Well, think about it!' he invites with no ill meaning. Long gone are the days when he'd imply anyone but him were idiots. _Or, at least, he makes me his exception. _'The thief needed to gain the maid's trust. But how did he know to target her? I'd imagine he knows the father, who blabbed about the necklace and other valuable items in his possession, while at his most vulnerable state...'

'In an opium den', I deduce after his help.

'I ruled out the thief being a high frequency user for he would then be too dependant on his heroin addiction to act. So perhaps a provider. Someone working at the den, or around it. Perhaps a private hansom driver that takes his boss out most nights and patiently waits outside to drive him back home in a state where his tong is loose.'

I nod, slowly. There's a lot of detective work from Sherlock I missed.

'Wait a second! There are so many establishments of the sort, how do expect to know which is the right one?'

He smirks and pulls out a little calling card from his front waistcoat pocket.

'It was on the silver platter at the entrance of the house, John. It's customary to leave a calling card when calling upon a gentleman. Hence the name "calling cards".'

I blink. 'That's amazing.'

'Well, I knew what to look for', he goes uncharacteristically shy and genuinely nice.

_Hm, right. I'm not letting my friend in on a drugs den._

He picks up on my resolution without as much as a word said and rolls his eyes. 'Please, John, I know how to behave!'

I wonder if by that odd phrase he meant he knows how to act sensibly like an adult, or that he can act the part of an opium filled guest like the others.

'Maybe I should go in', I volunteer to make sure Sherlock doesn't go in. 'A rest would do me good', I add in the hope of sealing the deal.

My friend frowns deeply and those worry lines are back on his expression in no time.

'Perhaps, John, if we toss a coin and–'

_'Sherlock!'_ I know now about his magician coins with two sides the same and I won't fall for that trick again.

'John...' he says my name petulantly, just to have the last word.

We're at a standstill right now, both motivated by our concern over the other one.

'There!'

It all breaks at the moment Sherlock shouts out a fair warning, pointing to a lovely hansom, almost totally swallowed by the fog emerging from the river. There's the man who stole the priceless necklace, the one we needed to find. This is lucky and a chance we cannot waist Sherlock starts running towards it, and I haste to follow him as best as I can.

'He's seen us, he knows we're onto him!' Sherlock complains, deep in his run.

'He's running away with his boss inside the carriage?'

'He'd have more to lose if he'd stay put!'

Sherlock's gaining some distance from me, as I try my best to run while holding my bruised ribs. I feel it would be unfair to call for my friend right now. Hold him back on the hunt, at the brink of finishing his case, of fixing the mess we created when coming in from the Past. Little by little Sherlock is getting away, and so is the hansom. I hope Sherlock's got a mind map of this Victorian London too. Then, with his bloody long legs, he stands a good chance to win the race.

Suddenly I can't see Sherlock any more. I lose him in the swirling fog coming up in visible puffs from the river. Out of breath and bending myself in half to overcome the nausea and exhaustion that this medically unadvisable, fruitless exercise has brought me, I try to steady each painful breath.

I end up falling on my knees over the damp cobble stones of the pavement. _Perhaps if I take just a small break..._ I lean against a stone façade of a nearby stone arch and close my eyes for a second. _It melts into a small eternity..._

_**.**_

I wake up shivering cold and nauseated. My small rest has helped me to see the truth. Internal injuries resulting from the fall are now extremely likely.

_I need help._

Perhaps I know a bit of Victorian London too. I'm not too far from the hospital. They should help me.

_Sherlock will forgive me for not waiting for his return. Given some time._

I gather all my strengths to get myself upright.

_**.**_

_"Sir, can you tell us your name?... Can you tell us your name and where you're from?"_

I made it. As I slowly drag myself the last few steps to the General Infirmary door I'm already being accosted by nurses, bombarding me with useless questions. Their voices are muffled and confusing, and I hardly register them in my mind as I'm looking for a safe haven, a place where I can nurse my wounds, where I can set myself right.

_A hospital is like a second home to me in its familiarity._

Spent too much time in them, both as a doctor and as a patient.

_"Sir, your name?"_

The cold stone wall comes into contact as I slump against it. I'm out of strengths, of equilibrium and of breath.

_"Name?"_

In one last effort for coherence, I answer automatically:

'Captain John Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, 5638755, sir!'

As darkness becomes all powerful, I'm sliding off the wall's support to the ground. _I lose all grasp on reality before reaching it._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	161. Chapter 161

_A/N: __**Part 8**__. I don't mean to present Victorian London in a bad light. I find it fascinating, actually. Smaller piece here, to make it up for the cliffhanger. Thank you._

_Still not British, a writer or a Time tourist. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

I wake up shivering cold, even though the ward's fires are lit, one at each end of the long narrow space, occupied fully with parallel beds. No curtains separating each patient (we're all male here and that seems to be enough for privacy sake) and since arrival I've identified all sorts of ailments, placed together in one room. Contamination is highly likely as we seem to be gathered from all parts of London, and some outside territories. Cases of pneumonia – like the fellow opposite me – coexist with broken bones on the mend – on the next bed – for instance. Logic would state we'd be kept apart accordingly, but not in here, or not yet. Maybe their diagnosis are still being prepared. One thing we all have in common is our military background. _We're all soldiers._ As I blurted out my name and rank coming in, they must have assumed I came from foreign territories and recently arrived in London.

It's not that untrue. It's freakish how History can repeat itself blindly.

Along the rows of beds occupied by soldiers there are cases of malnutrition next to broken bones, tuberculosis (I suspect), missing limbs and at least one case of self-inflicted illness to which a mental diagnosis follow-up would be mandatory in the modern contemporary world I come from. Not here, though. _We're all survivors, here._

Groaning under my shallow breaths I dare to close my eyes, fighting the panic based, tight ball forming in my throat, from this awkward and familiar feeling of loneliness and being utterly lost. I know this seems to be a tight spot as sure as I know I can handle this and whatever life throws at me. I also know that I'm not alone and that Sherlock Holmes will find me, he'd never forget me.

I blame the fear and panic on the high fever that rattles me from within.

_'Shhh... It's going to be okay, John.'_

I open my eyes to the darkened ward and realise no one is actually there. It's only my imagination. My friend's warm voice keeping me company.

_My fever must be spiking again._

'I wish you'd come', I murmur anyway, to the ward's silence.

My phone has been left in Baker Street. With no network service it'd be helpless here, anyway. Maybe I can write a note and ask some orderly to take it to Mrs Hudson, but there's a risk I'll expose 221 to the modern world.

_Maybe Sherlock can figure it out anyway._

I'm just not sure I can keep myself under check and from blurting my secrets meanwhile.

_**.**_

I woke up with a violent shudder and a silent scream. My fever has broke with the medicine given to me, but it has left exhaustion in its wake. In this weakened state I've allowed myself the mercy of a few hours sleep.

_I shouldn't have._ The same nightmares that have haunted me back in the safety of Baker Street have faithfully rejoined me here. There's a sad felling of destiny fulfilled with this outcome.

If at my small room in 221B I gather both privacy and understanding from my omnipotent flatmate, here my confused expression of fear and hurt from past events has been completely misjudged.

My personal turmoil merges my own past and present and, by all accounts, I'm actually not as silent during my nightmares as Sherlock's reactions lead me to believe I am. Perhaps he's been kind, perhaps it was just this feverish state heightening my reactions to the nightmares.

Sherlock never let on otherwise and I see now that he was probably providing me with much needed privacy.

I seem to have mentioned, in my turbulent state, the modern mechanics of war. Explosive devices, radars, radio communications, satnav, I'm not sure. One would think it possible for Victorian era people to conceive this future seeing all the advances they already possess, and their thrill for the future adventures.

Instead, I've been taken for a mad man. Luckily, I suppose, for if it wasn't for the oddity of my details I might have been taken for some sort of Victorian times terrorist.

They thought my voodoo warnings of war were too much to handle. _I could have agreed, in principle._ I would have welcomed a sedative at that point, but instead they opted for a more frugal choice and moved me, unannounced, to the mental patients ward.

_They think I'm mentally damaged._ They gave me an arm band to identify my ward and cuffed me to the new spring bed. They'll gladly let me wear out my insane speech among fellow patients.

_No one comes if I call for help in here._

I know I'm okay. I know my nightmares are my mind's way of sorting itself out after what I've been through.

_But it's so easy to doubt in here._

_**.**_

_This is my worst nightmare materialised._

As I stand shivering in cold sweat at the crowded infirmary with just one small window and too many patients – some of which are cursing the hell out of me for waking them up violently once again – I'm desperately pushing back images of my own terrors, collected abroad in dangerous lands.

Maybe some of these patients have seen it too, in a different expression of war. Maybe some of them have been equally damaged. And no, they don't deserve to be stuck in here after what they've been through. But medicine knowledge is slow in built and doctors here think the haunting memories are the product of a weak mind, in need of some tough love to get itself sorted.

They don't get how serious this is, or how haunting life is behind the "thousand yards stare".

I break down further with another cold shiver, taking both hands to cover my face. Around me, the noises from my fellow inmates are in an uproar. There's some sadistic joy present as they finally see me break my strong stance. It tells them in like them, we're all equally damaged here.

_Solidarity in numbers._

_**.**_

I can't tell how long I stay sitting in my spring bed, waiting for the morning light to cast hope over me and the other patients. Eventually they've quieted down, and most have returned to sleep, while the others stare blankly at the walls.

_I'm a doctor and I can't heal them. I can hardly keep my own sanity in this place._

I focus hard on Sherlock, and Mrs Hudson, and Baker Street as a home. They are a precious blessing I will not let go of.

But time is dragging me down.

_**.**_

'John? John! Can you hear me?'

There's a frantic quality to Sherlock's tightly whispered voice. He can't quite understand what to make of his quiet flatmate, looking blankly ahead, empty like the others at the infirmary ward. We all seem to be indifferent to his presence here.

Dawn has not yet broken and no light comes from the infirmary door Sherlock has left ajar when he infiltrated the ward. At the dim moonlight coming through the only window, Sherlock looks ghostly pale and partially lost in the shadows. I'm trying hard to hang onto this materialisation of my best friend, be it real or a desperate effort to hold myself together.

'Sher...?'

'I found you, John, I found you!'

'I'm...' _a mental case, a nut job. I'm..._ 'here.' _I'm here._

'I'm getting you out of here, I'm getting you out now.'

'They told me this is where I belong.' _When I talked too much. When the memories resurfaced._

'No, John, they are wrong. You know this.' His fingertips are pressing hard on my arms' cold skin, in a connection that ignores all Time lines.

'They forced me into a mental ward, Sherlock', I whisper, broken, hurt. He presses his lips thin till they turn white in anger but it's gently that he lowers his head till our foreheads are touching, my skin burning up in fever against his colder one.

'They are wrong. They don't have enough knowledge, John. You know this. You've studied medicine. You're a doctor.' His confident words are a strong lullaby to sooth me.

'They think I'm a mental case', I painfully verbalize at last. Sherlock seems to understand the pregnancy in the words and he pushes me nearer him, as he works on the restraints behind my back that keep me shackled to the bed.

'It's almost over, John.'

'Maybe... But I keep thinking they could be right. That would explain so much...'

He pushes me closer, playing on some angle over the rusty lock he's picking.

'John.' I hear his confidant and familiar voice so close to me that I can almost feel it reverberate in my own chest. 'I trust you wouldn't believe in a "mental case" as you so eloquently put it.'

I shake my head at once.'Not in a million years.' He must be about to use his logic on me. Tell me he's rationalised I'm normal.

'Well, I've been a boarding guest in one of these mental hospitals before, John. Before anyone could make sense of who I was, being different from the other kids.' I shiver, feeling so sad for my friend. Is this where his self-imposed "high functioning sociopath" label comes from? As he shied away from emotions as a child because he was so sensitive they threatened to break him? Didn't anyone see Sherlock just needed some guidance in dealing with his emotions?

'How long?' I start. I feel I need to know as much as I can. But immediately I get ashamed for prying so much.

'Little, very little. But enough. It's not something I'll forget easily, John.'

'I'm so sorry you had to go through that', I tell him, sincerely, from the bottom of my heart .

'It didn't make what they said about me true', Sherlock assures me. 'And this place doesn't make what they said about you right either. We both know better than that.'

I nod at last, feeling that I've regained back some of my eroded self-confidence. Behind me, the tempered restraint breaks off me in a timely fashion.

'I believe, John, it's time to evade this awful place', Sherlock tells me with a warm smile. 'We have a case to close.'

Blinking my eyes and absorbing the incredible thankfulness of the moment I nod at once.

'Let's go, Sherlock.'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	162. Chapter 162

_A/N: __**Part 9**__. Phew, this is the one before last, given that it got a bit long. Sorry, I keep bombarding you with updates, silly me. -csf_

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_**.**_

Experience would lead me to believe Sherlock and I would evade my horrible prison dressing up as orderlies, or if my friend was in such a foul mood as the corners of his lips indicate, perhaps as high profile visiting doctors to the Infirmary, telling off everybody in sight. Either way, a timely disguise where no one seems to know us would be sufficient to derail all curiosity about us and avoid us being stopped.

_Oh, not this time._

I may be witnessing a most contained anger management from the great genius. When stung by people or events, Sherlock tends to be... vindictive. It can go from the lighthearted "you forgot to put sugar in my tea, John, now I'm putting sugar on your coffee as soon as you turn your back to me", meant in the most pedagogical fashion obviously, or the old "DI Lestrade pulls a fake drugs bust and I take his badge when he's not looking", which is little more than reasserting the universe's natural pecking order according to Sherlock; exceptionally, it goes far beyond the call of loyalty towards a wronged friend, like today.

Sherlock has helped me up by supporting part of my weight, as I lean on him with my arm around his neck. No disguises are in order, according to the mad genius. We'll just walk out of here, proudly. That I'm holding onto my friend so I can stand upright is just a mere detail that will not detract from my dignity. We all need some help sometimes, and Sherlock is just providing a careful support in my time of need, not declaring an incapacity or flaw in me. With Sherlock I could never feel that. We act like equals.

'Sherlock, they'll try to stop us!'

'Good', he states briefly, that vindictive mood resurfacing.

'I don't want that', I patiently translate the obvious.

'If you insist. Act normally and we'll be out in no time.' He sniffs haughtily.

'What if someone stops us?' I whisper through gritted teeth.

'Then I'll have it my way.' _Obviously._

'Sherlock!' I protest.

'John...' He pretends he's not paying attention.

My knees falter slightly and Sherlock's other hand comes at once to support me at my waist. I need to pause and take deep breaths to overcome my momentary indisposition.

'I... I won't be able to walk all the way to Baker Street.'

'That will be arranged, John', he promises me. 'Help is two streets away.'

'How did you know where to find me?' I wonder, waiting a few more seconds till I feel more steady on my feet. Anyway, the corridors are still empty at dawn and no one is in sight.

'I had irregular help, John.'

'Meaning...?' I won't let go of my question. My tenacity is rewarded with a hint of a relieved smile at the corners of his mouth. He enjoys my curiosity.

'There are plenty of spectators at the dock, John. Most of them would be considered undesirables by societal standards and have learnt to keep themselves to themselves.'

'Beggars?' I try to follow his hint.

'And prostitutes, a reformed murderer that now stops murders (a very interesting vigilante, John!) and a couple of runaways. You know I'm accustomed to the help of those left at the margin by society. I help them, and in turn they are my informants. What is usually a part of my irregular network in our days, I had to build their trust in this Time in under an hour.'

'You paid for their help', I point out frankly.

'A lot...' He shrugs. 'Although I flatter myself to think that as society's misunderstood it's my personal touch that unites us all in principle.'

'They told you where I went', I gather further. 'Why did they follow me? Were they assuring I was safe?'

Sherlock looks down on me as if I sound feverish. I probably am.

'You were mugged no less than three times on your way to the Victorian times A&amp;E, John', he tells me dispassionately as he hands over my modern days wallet. 'Your money is still in there, they found little use for money coined with Queen Elizabeth's profile.'

I fake a smile and put away my wallet. 'Ta, Sherlock.'

He pretends not to listen. Sherlock is never one to expect or want "Thank you"s. He does it all because I'd do it for him, and that settles it. Equals from the start.

I resume walking again, in controlled steps.

'John, I'm worried about your health', Sherlock blurts out all of a sudden. I look him in the eyes. He looks young and vulnerable, as he expects nothing but honesty from me. _That's what I must give him._

'Sherlock, I... I'm still here. I misdiagnosed myself. I thought I had been extremely lucky. Turns out I've only been lucky, after all. I think I was wrong, I must have cracked a rib. It nicked at something internally, and I was bleeding where it wasn't possible to see. There aren't many methods to judge internal bleeding in these days, but by palpation for blood accumulation on the thoracic area. I couldn't feel it. It mustn't have been much of a blood loss before it stopped on its own.'

Sherlock's lips are almost vanished from being pressed together so hard.

'What's the point of being a doctor if you can't fix yourself?' he asks me petulantly, in a completely fake mood, as his gaze is looking so worried.

'It has stopped, and I'm feeling better, Sherlock. I can manage till we get to our Time, and then I'll get it checked up by another doctor. The Time machine's batteries should be almost fully charged, right?'

He nods, like a man trying to convince himself.

I add, realising I didn't ask about Sherlock's own story to tell from our time apart: 'And the thief getting away on a hansom?'

Making sure to support me as he opens the heavy wooden door with the other hand, we're greeted with the outside cold air as the first dawn lights are bathing London's streets for a new day. Sherlock assures me: 'I caught up with him. Easy enough, considering lots of modern day underground tunnels are built upon the structures of the recent Victorian aqueducts for waste waters.'

'You had to go through sewers?' _Did he change his clothes?_

'Not fully functional yet, John. I was lucky to chose a dry path, not yet used.' _Lucky indeed._ 'Anyway, I came out just ahead of the hansom and managed to storm it and handle the horses to a stop.'

'You jumped on the hansom's driver like Robin Hood?' I'm stunned as I picture the scene.

'Like who?'

'Never mind. Go on, I can see I missed all the fun', I tell him with a smile.

Slowly we are descending the steps outside the hospital. Sherlock's rich voice carries on: 'As soon as the horses stopped, and it took quite a while because they were very alarmed, I turned to the man at my side, but he was already getting out of the small carriage driver's seat and running off. I'm quite sure I shouted out for you, John. I was very puzzled when I did not perceive an answer from you. By the time the fact that you were not actually there caught up with me, I'm ashamed to admit I had already wrestled the thief onto the ground, rescued the all important necklace, and was handcuffing him.'

'You brought handcuffs to the Victorian era?' I squint. He finds it natural, it would seem.

'They could come in handy, which they did... John, I thought you were there all along. I believe I'm too accustomed to your presence and it ashamed me I didn't realise you stayed behind.'

'It's okay, Sherlock. I mean it.'

'I will be more careful in the future', he vows nevertheless, in all seriousness.

'Sherlock', I tell him in the same mood, 'you came to get me out of my worst nightmare. Don't think for a second I'll ever hold a grudge against you. I can hardly believe you found me, you always find me.' _You always help me when I need you the most._

'John, are you sure this short walk is advisable in your state?'

I simulate a shrug. 'Maybe not, but we're almost there now.'

'Baker Street is still a while away, John.'

'Yes, but we're going by the maid's house first, Sherlock. You have the necklace and we have a Time flow to fix. I can come up with a silly plan that just might make Mycroft and the Universe happy at the same time.'

'My older brother seems to believe him and the Universe are one and only entity, but I see what you mean', he jokes lightly.

I give him a small smile for commiseration purposes alone. 'We have a job to do', I insist.

'John?'

'Hey, I can have ideas too, can't I?' He looks genuinely less than sure about that, and I notice I've walked myself into that trap. _Never mind._ 'I'll tell you all about it as we get there, I wouldn't dream of making it a secret. We're on this Time travelling business together.'

'Thank you, John', he says, not sensing any sarcasm at all.

_**.**_

A few streets away is the house that centred so many life changing events the day before. I'm stunned as I ponder how these striking events should create some sort of material change, a physical sign in the landscape before us that reality can be altered in a blink of an eye.

The house looks hatefully unaltered, indifferent to the human gruesome battles of life and death, love and hate.

'John.' Sherlock calls my name softly once again. He has been doing that every once in a while, keeping his full attention on me, measuring my reactions, asserting my status.

'Ring the doorbell, will you? No need to postpone this task.' He seems confused by my words. He hasn't foreseen that my previous excuse to enter this house is about to come back to haunt me.

The young maid opens the door with dark circles under her eyes, but a brave expression that soon softens as she takes me in. 'Doctor Watson! Oh, I'm so glad you came back. My father is unwell again. He has madly decided to go out late last night and he came home in such a fright, shivering from head to toe and silent like a scared man.'

_Well, being highjacked on Sherlock Holmes quest for his driver will certainly have something to do with that, although some withdrawal signs must be visible already._ I sigh.

'Doctor?' she asks me the silent question, so full of hope and faith that it becomes so painful to have to let her down.

'It's serious, miss. I'm afraid your father may not get better. It's not a reflection on the man your father is, but on the opium he's become dependant on.'

'It's the drugs talking', Sherlock neatly resumes by my side, with the sort of candidness that can only be allowed in a first person experience. 'He has a battle to fight.'

She nods because deep down she knows it. And just like that she looks as old as the world, with that load weighing on her shoulders. But she's also young and she has her own life ahead of her, with her amour. It's there she needs to focus her incredible strength and drive. Life has taught her valuable lessons she now needs to take with her.

'I'll leave the name of two Victorian– I mean, two of my contemporary specialists. If anyone can help your father return to the incredible scholar and cultured man he was, it'll be them.'

She nods, thankful. In a burst of emotion, she grabs onto my hands with a strong grip. Then she takes it further and embraces me in the same unpredictability. I muffle a groan as it jolts my ribs a bit too much.

Sherlock gives me the help I need, just on cue. 'We've followed your father yesterday, having recognized his hansom and worrying about his fit state to stroll about London at night. In his haste, surely he recognised us, but didn't wish to establish contact. It was fortunate that we noticed he dropped something, we picked it up.'

_That's quite clever, Sherlock. _In the end, Sherlock was the one coming up with a practical plan, and keeping it a secret from me till delivery as always.

My friend hands the admirable young woman the velvety pouch containing the necklace. The one that is now one of the family's last riches. _One that will, over a century later, be the founding stone of wars to come._

She wouldn't be so happy if she knew the dark future we're handing her.

In her blissful ignorance she is dazzled by her seemingly good fortune and she smiles in utter joy.

'It's not lost!' she mumbles in incredulity. Then she launches herself to Sherlock in the same type of tight embrace that she offered me.

_I have fun watching my friend squirm to get free._

'I believe you have a choice to make, with one who has promised his heart to you', Sherlock insists.

She looks torn, and looks down on the hope materialised in a piece of paper I wrote that may well be her father's last hope of treatment. Finally she nods quietly to herself.

'I don't know how you know all that, sir...' Sherlock rolls his eyes at the notion of being called _sir_. 'I have much to think about.'

We prepare to leave the brave young lady, with a good deal of faith in her young heart.

Making our goodbyes, we return outside where the morning light is shining brighter, under the first smoke issuing from the industries initiating their activity.

As soon as the girl shuts the door I falter and Sherlock is fast to grab me before I collapse onto the sidewalk.

'I need a rest, that's all', I tell my friend in a weak voice.

'Your fever is returning', he senses, desperately looking around for some help, some idea, some soothing to give me. He ends up hauling a passing cab. Or should I say a sort of public hansom. _It's bloody freakish how Sherlock always gets a cab at first try, and it takes me forever when I have a go. I usually take the underground instead._

'It's all we could have done, Sherlock. We can go back to Baker Street and get out of here now.'

He nods as if he wants nothing else.

_**.**_

'You're distracted', Sherlock tells me with a sharp tone that pierces both the silence and my abstractions at once.

I turn my gaze away from the streets we roll in our hansom and nod to my insightful friend. It's the simple truth. I'm distracted. There's no more to be said about it.

My friend's expression softens. 'You wanted to help that family further. Stay behind, nurse the father to health, see if the fiancée is worthy of the young lady', Sherlock further recognises, quietly. No accusations, no praises, no substance beyond his words. Just the simple fact, as if that could make it easier for me to accept it.

Yet I have no doubt he read me like a book and sees the quiet storms I carry within me, helpless to help when I could make a difference.

'There's so much good I could do here, I should have done here', I summarise for him. Even as I play it down, it offends me as an incomplete statement.

The detective nods, not surprised, as if he's foreseen my reactions to this observer stance all along.

_'I_ need you, John', he reminds me. 'And the past is set, it cannot be changed, not on the bigger strikes at least. Too much would be at stake if that happened. Our whole way of life could be altered.'

'Yes, cockroaches can rule the Earth, I get it', I pronounce along a sigh. Sherlock completely misses my point and insists:

'Like you said quoting some big Hollywood production, you mustn't alter the Past. It'd have devastating consequences to our future. If that's not enough to set a pathos to our mission and free you of any moral duties you may entertain, then consider this: you didn't come alone. We need to stand by each other. This is what I'm asking of you. To keep at my side and come back. At a high price it comes, but I'm positive you'll see I mean well when your fever lowers again.'

I know he's right. My loyalty needs to be to Sherlock right now. And Mrs Hudson. We need to keep her safe too.

There's still one more dangerous ordeal to go through. We need to make a safe journey home.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	163. Chapter 163

_A/N: __**Part 10 **__/ last part, finally here. From Past to Present era! (Insert heroic expression here.) Still not any of my usual shortcomings: British, writer, detective. -csf_

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_**.**_

It's a bit complicated to be a Time tourist and bring back souvenirs for the gang. It's hardly a holiday abroad in a sunny location or a ski resort. And anyway that's not my style; or Sherlock's, if I can guess for my friend. Besides, there's the whole secrecy act that we'd be breaking, and I know by experience that the older Holmes brother can forcefully intercept any leak in a secret he insists upon.

I suppose I could bring our friends some old piece of something from the Victorian era. Or, better yet, there's a big market for antiques that would make our small journey highly profitable, but neither of us wants to spend our time selling off second-hand goods. And most of our friends would think something was quite not right if we gave them old stuff as a souvenir from our time away in... _What was our excuse again, Sherlock?_

My telepathic friend sees me raising an inquiring gaze from this old "Time machine, build it yourself" book I'm browsing lazily and he knows immediately what I'm on about.

'The Mediterranean, John. And let's keep it vague. That way our details always fit our story.' Sherlock's sly smile reminds me of a very smug cat, all the way from his own armchair, facing mine, at 221B. The calming rhythmic sound of horses and carriages outside permeates into the quietness of the flat.

I nod in acquiescence, but wonder out loud: 'Shouldn't we being sporting more of a tan?'

'I'm sure somewhere in the Mediterranean there was a lot of rain. That's exactly where we've been away for the weekend. Sudden pressing case we couldn't refuse, bound by secrecy and all that sort of stuff you love to label our cases with to make them appear more interesting.'

I frown. 'Our cases are interesting, Sherlock. You're just sulking this case is just about over. All left to be done is go to back and tell your brother.'

'Hm... I – don't – sulk.'

I smirk affectionately. 'Yes, you do.'

'Well, the Time machine is ready, John. So, when you're done...'

I raise a tired glance to my friend. Good old-fashioned painkillers and antibiotics stored in the medicine cupboard in our bathroom have much improved my mood and helped me regain some strengths. 'Yes, it's probably best... Mrs Hudson is coming on the machine with us, right?'

'Naturally. We won't take any chances. Good landladies are hard to find.' _Yeah, right, like you'd ever give her up!_ 'She'll be up shortly... John, are you sure you are up for the ride? Perhaps if we stay in the Victorian times a while longer without leaving the flat you can recuperate and...'

I hardly let him carry on. 'You'd go insane and so would I.'

'Hardly seems a truthful affirmation, John. I believe I could live in this time. Plenty of scientific discoveries to achieve and mysteries to solve.' He's sounding all philosophical and dreamy now.

I smile. 'It's not fair if you have inside knowledge, Sherlock.'

He ponders it for a few seconds. 'I believe education has let me down, John', he concludes.

I giggle in a heartbeat. 'Sherlock, we need to go back to our time', I admit, more sternly. 'We came here, we made a mess, and we managed to sort it out. But I don't think we quite fulfilled the goals in the case. I mean, there's still a war on the rise in a foreign land.'

'Never mind.'

'What? You don't care?'

'The client's my brother. Do keep up, John!' he claims indifference with a derisive sniff. I smile knowingly.

Mrs Hudson is coming up the stairs, looking all prepped for our small travel through Time. Immediately as she comes in she's searching for me in the room, and finding me, she can't help but motherly lament: 'Oh, John... You really look like you need a good kip. Are you sure you're up for a travel?'

I give her my most reassuring smile. 'I'm almost as good as new, Mrs H.'

She shakes her head, disguising a smile. 'Your mother must have had her hands full with you and that charming smile, young man, but don't think you can fool me for a second!'

'Wouldn't dream of it!' I further expand the said smile. She just lightly pats away at my arm.

'John.' Sherlock calls me to lead me to the main seat in the terrible machine, as he goes himself to help Mrs Hudson get in on the side seat.

Why am I taking the controls? Sherlock must be expecting this to be a bumpy ride home and wants to keep an eye on me.

_Or he's just checking I don't mess with the Time continuity again._

Soon Mrs Hudson is with us; is that a homemade lunch pack she's brought for us? Sherlock takes his place behind me, at the helm of this time-ship (is there such a thing?), he presses a few buttons and some minor clogs and fans start going around us. The machine picks up speed in it's trembling and sighing, like a giant living monster with a mechanical mind of its own. Discreetly I press my hand harder against my stomach, hoping to settle it.

'Just drop it, John. Take us home', Sherlock's clear steady voice gives me the Okay to get this monstrous machine Time spinning. I glance over at Mrs Hudson, she smiling at us as if she's taking a shine to the adventure streak in her. But like a trooper all she says is:

'Go on, boys. We must be home before the supermarket closes, you're running short on milk.'

'Sherlock will get it', I impose at once. I mean, I'd do it myself if it wasn't for my ribs. It's sofa and rest with the telly on for the rest of the week. Sherlock can pick up the tab on the chores this time.

Amazingly, the great genius, and mad scientist, doesn't oppose to my offering. 'Naturally', he claims as if he was an ordinary sight in a supermarket. He must really mean it when he promised to make sure I rest.

Like I say, Baker Street is home, and I'm happy to return home.

'...After I updated my onion skin cells cellulose content experiment, of course', Sherlock finishes. I sigh. _Yes, what was I seriously expecting?_

'Fascinating', I say without heart. 'Why don't I get the milk?'

'John?'

It's the strange tone in Sherlock's voice and the funny sniggering coming Mrs Hudson's way that give me reason for a second guess. 'What?'

'I was joking, John. Do keep up. I made a promise, or have you forgotten?'

I frown. 'What is that?' I'm not following.

'John. You need rest and I'll make sure you get it.'

That sounds ominous as a threat. And luxurious as ever. Maybe I should hurry us up for this.

I push down the last lever and the swirling white fog involves in its familiar mystery.

_**.**_

I must have slept a week, or it just feels like it, for my body was in desperate need of rest. Something soothing in the way our case ended gave me enough peace of mind to skip my nightmares altogether for this time, for which I'm grateful.

Having slept over twelve hours – according to my recharged phone – I come down to 221B's living room with unsteady steps. _I'm running late for work._

_Life as I know it resumes._

I'm surprised at the sight of DI Lestrade, pacing mindlessly in the living room. He turns to face me at once.

'Oh, hi, John. Sherlock just went to fetch a parcel downstairs.'

'Really?' I frown. _He actually went himself? Did we disturb the Time continuum more than we originally thought?_

Greg smirks. 'It's for some sort of mould growing experiment, or so he said. Only he can touch it, apparently.'

_Oh, that makes more sense._ I rub my eyes to chase away the last remnants of sleep. Greg carries on: 'Sherlock said you were fast asleep after the long travel back.'

_Right. Yes. Mediterranean._

'Yes, long case, got me knackered. And all the way back from the client on the Mediterranean as well...'

Greg focusses on me with a very keen eye. 'Funny enough, Sherlock said you two had gone to Denmark.'

_What? Sherlock, we agreed on the Mediterranean! Is this another useless piece of knowledge to my friend, much like the Solar System?_

'He gets mixed up, sometimes.' I keep my cool, by training.

'Yeah, right. Look, John, whatever your top-secret case I can tell you came back worse for the wear. You know you don't have to tag along every time, don't you? You're not conjoined twins or something.'

_It's an inch short of funny. _Greg means well because he cares for us both. He's a good friend, just mislead.

'Nonsense, Greg. I'll always trust Sherlock to be there when it matters the most and he can trust me to do the same', I state fiercely, as I grab my jacket to go. Greg lets me leave under a heavy worried gaze.

As I'm leaving 221B, Sherlock is coming up the stairs at last, carrying lazily a small brown parcel.

'Lestrade's waiting for you upstairs', I recount briefly as I wedge between him and the railing.

Sherlock doesn't give it a second thought. Grabbing me by the jacket's sleeve he stops me long enough to tell me, in a frantic maniac energy: 'You did it, John! And it was so amazingly simple I can hardly keep myself from telling my brother and losing the upper hand!'

Something in my expression makes it clear he's making little sense to me. Sherlock persists: 'The necklace, John! Even though it was returned to the proper Time line events, it has become meaningless in Mycroft's rioting revolution. I've just had the misfortune of catching up with my brother and he's been asking me to go into the Past to meddle with a pocket watch. In short, another object has taken its place. Because you made it possible. John, you altered the Past by barging in on past events, and then reshaped it back to its form by engaging with the maid. John, your kindness towards the maid changed everything. We thought we were unsuccessful, but the young couple moved back to the girl's birth town and without resentment they taught the following generations to be... well, peaceful.'

'We stopped a small war?'

'Well, no. Not really, that was still bound to happen. But given you enough time, John, your niceness could have changed the world!'

I laugh it off and soon he joins in; mostly because he finds my giggles contagious, and a bit because it's too much soppiness coming from Sherlock Holmes.

'I'm just an old soldier returned home, Sherlock', I assure my friend.

Sherlock follows my muted movement urging him up to meet Greg and keep up the Secret. 'Fine... When did you realise this would have been more fun if we could have told them?'

'From the start, Sherlock.'

He hums appreciatively and resumes his way up the stairs. 'I might tell them some day. Just think, John; who 'd believe it?'

_He's got a point, the blooming genius._

_**.**_


	164. Chapter 164

_A/N_

_If ever I'd write very well, then I'd have one of my proudest moments when dedicating those scribbles to a beautiful old lady, who was never old in her eyes and thus will live forever. Someone who accepted me as a friend before it could be said she knew me. Who welcomed me to new places when I left a lot behind. Who had the tough love of sweetly asking "how are you" and never taking a generic "fine" for an answer. A nod and a silent clever expectation of more truthful words to follow, that have always been met with acceptance. I miss her already.__ -csf (01.04.2016)_

* * *

_**.**_

Some days, Sherlock is as annoying as he can get, I'm sure. Others, he mesmerises me with such generosity in the simplest things he does. Today, it's turning out to be one of the former type of days, where I question if I am really sane as I'm sharing a flat with a mad and infuriating genius.

Sherlock has been completely oblivious to the effect of his formic acid experiment that involved actual ants being sacrificed for science, and created a nauseating stench that is overflowing onto the street outside, or how wrong it is to keep maggots in the vegetable drawer of the fridge, that always escape confinement and wander everywhere in the metal container. It's possibly a good thing, because I'm not really that hungry anymore, and anyway Sherlock has binned the leftovers of last night's dinner claiming _he_ wasn't hungry and they were in the way of a biological waste decomposition in the fridge. That only got to happen, of course, because I couldn't closely monitor the genius, since the senior management at the Surgery actually insists I show up for work in order to pay me. And in the absence of good cases, I often do double shifts so to make sure I can later take time off to accommodate Sherlock's cases as a blogger (and so much more). In all of this, Sherlock's only interest zooms in on his scientific experiments as he sulks for the lack of a proper case – "It needs to be at least a Five, John! _A_ _Five_, I'm already accepting as low as _that_, it's execrable!" – and I find myself huffing silently and shuffling exhausted feet to the shower. Hoping the hot water can set me right.

I'm letting the detective sort all of 221B detergents by alkalinity with a homemade pH indicator. It's what he does for fun, I guess. And the smell of boiled cabbage is a welcomed change to the prior ones.

I lowered the bundle of clean clothes to the lavatory, all folded neatly, then I return to lock the bathroom door behind me.

Not that I'm too concerned if Sherlock barges in on me. As a retired army officer, I'm more than used to lack of privacy and as a doctor I'm less than shy about the human body. It's just that Sherlock tends to do odd stuff when I'm caught off guard. He has barged in, on occasion (and might still try), if he spills some exotic venom over his hand by knocking the sample jar to the ground. Once, he triumphantly rushed in to hasten me to get to the crime scene, found me with a towel wrapped around my waist (lucky me) and obliviously tried pushing me alongside him all the way to the cab, in front of the client.

I shake my head but it comes out more affectionately than with real accusation. Sherlock is a mad clot but he's genuine as it gets, in his goofy social mistakes. With one last smirk being pushed deep down, I enter the shower cabin and reach out to the tap, turning it on full blast on hot water. A surge of ice cold water hits me instead, sagging the breath out of me and forcing me into a fit of uncontrollable shivers. I haste to turn off the tap with uncoordinated movements and allow myself a couple of seconds, dumbstruck, to catch my breath, before I call out, angrily: 'Sherlock, I want to shower! What have you done?'

Silence follows my bellowing till I hear fast footsteps approaching the bathroom door from the corridor outside. Then I hear the lock being picked by the expert thieving genius (he must have heard me lock it for he doesn't even try the handle, and overall sees no inference to the barrier between us) and finally Sherlock emerges at the door of the bathroom. Solemnly, as if suddenly shy and respectful, he tries to gage the situation before him. Holding myself upright by hanging on to the shower taps, I ask over my shoulder, tiredly: 'Is it for science?' It's amazing the sincere acceptance that is unconcealed in my voice.

Sherlock smirks, _the clot_. He's not sorry at all. Just like a toddler, he's irresponsible and finds this whole situation funny, I'd venture. I sag further towards the taps where I find my support. I can always understand him, even when I'm angry; maybe this is my fault, as an enabler.

Sherlock finally speaks: 'Honestly, John! You need to get out of there and dry off, before you freeze to death.'

I nod tiredly, as I force myself off the shower cabin in shivering uncoordinated movements, and struggle to wrap a towel around me. I find a hand reaching out, materialising next to me. I'm shaking so hard that I take Sherlock's help. If I didn't, I might have fallen to the tiled floor. A sudden dizzy spell leaves me further unbalanced, leaning over Sherlock's dry shirt.

He never actually pushes me away, despite all of his human close contact reservations. He just takes a strong pair of hands to my forearms to hold me steady.

'John, what is it?' he whispers, suddenly unsure.

'Nothing.'

'You're the doctor here, remember?'

'Dizzy spell.'

'I can see that!' he reproaches me. 'Why?'

'Cold water.'

'Damn! We need to get you warm again, John.'

'Am fine.'

'No, you are not. Stop arguing.'

'Right.'

'Don't just agree with me!'

'Sorry.'

Sherlock bites his lip and the light blue tinge in his eyes clouds darkly. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's repented.

Well, maybe he remembers vaguely that time when the paramedics got called because a case forced me into the Thames. The icy waters later seized my bummed shoulder muscles, painfully clutching them.

'Is it your shoulder?' he asks me, true to form.

'Humph. Maybe.' That's not something I'll admit easily.

'Damn it.'

I'm fighting to remain in control, to keep conscious and display no outward signs of fragility, but totally dependent on Sherlock's grasp now. Why haven't I tried the water before turning it on? I should know my shoulder couldn't take the beating, and that my flatmate is a —

'I'll make it up to you, John, just you see!' he promises sincerely.

'Forget it.'

'I mean it, so _just drop it, John_.'

'Humph.'

_**.**_

Five minutes later I find myself lying back against the worn out fabric of my armchair, where Sherlock helped me to. I'm taken by surprise with the solicitude of the dastardly scientist, who settles the Union Jack pillow behind my back and again helps me lean back.

'Tea!' he exclaims with some relief. 'I'll make you some tea!' Sherlock volunteers as if all the world's troubles could be solved with tea.

'Painkillers', I mutter through gritted teeth, mimicking his victorious tone. For a flicker of a second I see the guilt in his eyes overwhelm him and I feel bad for my lack of tact. Sherlock is like a five year old. Sometimes he just doesn't sense the consequence of his actions.

'Coming right up', he owns up at once, getting upright and heading off.

'Wait, Sherlock! I didn't tell you where I keep the painkillers!' I call him back sharply.

'Behind the laptop speakers on your desk, John.'

_That's right_, how does he know that?

He's probably secretly been to my room more times than I wish to imagine. Messing about, impromptu detective work as a reason, but I think it's just when he's seriously bored.

Tea is delivered shortly, or at least what passes for tea in Sherlock's grim self-sufficient world. The hot water wasn't hot enough and the tea bag didn't stay in long enough. All in all, seems like he rushed it, as if trying to get the panacea of warm tannins to me in the shortest time.

My anger mellows when faced with this young Sherlock, threading so unsurely in the waters of genuine guilt and concern. I am not a person who is used to this, nor do I thrive on others feeling bad on account of me. Therefore I open my mouth to set my friend at ease, when I'm suddenly interrupted by heavy energetic footsteps up the stairs to 221B. DI Lestrade, I'd say.

I let my shoulders sag, the left one tingling painfully, as I realise I need all my stamina and fake smiles to pull a deception on both Sherlock and Greg. Assure them I'm fine. No lasting harm done. That it's not weird to be sat at the living room in just a bath towel.

For once, Sherlock boisterous personality is toned down and he goes meet the DI of Scotland Yard at the landing of the stairs with a calmer demeanour. _It feels off._ I'd always rather see his overbearing moods and Greg's patient decoding, every once in a while asking me to make sense of Sherlock between the two of us.

'I've incapacitated John', Sherlock confesses demurely as he greets Lestrade and brings him over. In Greg's defence, he manages to hold in a snigger, out of friendship, when he lays eyes on me.

'John's not wearing clothes.'

'That's not true. He has a towel.'

'That doesn't count as clothes, Sherlock.'

'Have you been talking to my brother?' Sherlock turns suspicious, with a flick of a brow. 'A bed sheet is a perfectly adequate—'

'Don't want to know!' Greg hastens to cut our friend short, raising his hands in fake surrender. Meanwhile his smile turns mockingly open as he guesses this must be the homely 221B he rarely gets to see, as is mostly left between Sherlock and me.

'My dressing gown, Sherlock?' I ask him for small graces, with my best smile.

He rolls his eyes at the conventions I abide by, as he tells Greg: 'It's his shoulder. Well, actually I caused bodily harm to John, so it's perfectly obvious that it's now my job to nurse him back to health.' As he finishes pledging his mission, Sherlock approaches me from the fireplace side, and taking me by surprise because I'm stiff and can't turn that way, he drapes his own silk dressing gown over me.

'This isn't mine.'

'Doesn't matter, John. We share this flat and the work. There is no "I" in "team"... There is a "me", however, if you scramble the letters. Hardly the point.'

His awkwardness hits a chord on me and I end up accepting the gown he's lending me.

'Well, in that case, John', Greg tells me with a funny light in his eye, 'you'll get a chance for some payback, innit?'

Don't know what he means. _Or I'll pretend._

'Come on, John. You keep taking care of our neighbourhood genius. It's about time he gives back some.'

_Sure is._ But what I say instead is quite different: 'My shoulder is not doing so well, Greg. I'm not faking it, you know?'

Greg's face pales as he takes in the inference. That I take offense in him believing I'd lie to get a payback. My shoulder is absolutely killing me, that's a hundred percent for real.

'Oh, hm, is there anything I can do for you, John?'

_I could make a living out of this guilt trip on my friends._

_I'm turning into a bad person, I'm sure of it. _Feeling like absolute crap over this last minute manipulate streak, I lower my head and reproach myself: 'No, the pain is all gone now. I was being silly. I'll get up and get going. Plenty of things to do. Dinner, for instance.'

Two sets of hands spring out in my general direction in order to stop me at once. Sherlock and Greg are both taking this Caring business a bit too seriously.

'I'm fine. Honestly.'

'Not even close to believing you, mate', Greg says at once and Sherlock is giving me a measured look. Since when does the consulting detective have the moral upper hand? I frown, not comfortable with the tables turned.

_They insist in taking care of me._

_A war veteran._

_No chance!_

'I said "I'm fine", guys. No way I'll idle around when I could be doing something useful and...' I lose my train of thought as my gaze crosses with that of Sherlock. I doubt even Greg could have spotted it, being slightly to the back at the moment. Sherlock's expression was so open, so devastated, so broken. Is he blaming himself this much? He must know my shoulder gives me a hard time every once in a while. No, this is about me not letting him in, not accepting his help, put forward in absolute genuineness by a man who's not aware that being so genuine can mean to be so vulnerable to the world. And I'm hurting him by refusing. That was not planned. That can be fixed.

_I need to let them help._

_And I might even have some fun out of this._

_Back to Plan A. For catharsis alone, of course._

'Okay, Sherlock, fine. If you take care of dinner...'

'I'll order.'

'I had my mind set on home made food, too bad.'

'I'll cook.'

' 'You sure?' My question comes riddled with doubt, yet he doesn't take it personally at all. There's this innocence to my friend that is sometimes painful to witness.

'Y-yeah...' he starts, bravely. _It's all chemistry and physics after all._

_He might be very good at it, surprising everyone._

_Or he might get us poisoned._

_Namely me. He hardly eats anyway._

_**.**_

The harsh tea and painkillers are doing the trick, and I find myself surrounded by Sherlock's homely sounds as he moves about in 221B's kitchen. The hush-hush of fabric as he moves, the sound of vegetables being chopped and the swirling of a thick broth being stirred occasionally lull me to a doze. With my back turned to the kitchen, due to the position of my armchair in the living room, I let myself imagine what wonders Sherlock is trying his hand at.

In all the time we shared a flat, I haven't seen him cooking.

_I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a hidden talent._

Suddenly a loud sound of metal pots colliding hard against the ground makes me just about jump off my seat. I grab onto my shoulder at once. My jolt stirred at it too much. I need to take deep breaths to ease the pain down.

'It's all under control, John!' Sherlock tells me in a high pitch tone that sounds empty.

_I wouldn't be so sure._

I try getting up to help (a step down from aggravatingly impose directions) but my friend precedes my action by reading my mind.

'It just burnt a bit, nothing much, John! Keep yourself there!'

'What is it?' I try to ask neutrally.

'Pizza. I've see you eating it before.'

Oh. _That was a long time to defrost a pizza. _Especially for a Mensa category genius.

'I wasn't aware we still had pizza.'

'No, I made it from scratch, John. You said "home made".'

Oh. That's amazing for someone who hardly cooks. And, hm...

'Sherlock, did you make the doe?'

'Yes.'

'And blended the tomato sauce.'

'Yes.'

'With tomatoes from the vegetable drawer in the fridge.'

'Yes.'

'The one with the maggots?'

He skips a beat. 'Yes, John. I... I'll order a pizza from Angelo.'

'Sounds lovely.'

'It was getting burnt in the oven anyway.'

'Yes.'

Sherlock comes over the edge of the seat within sight and he's smirking apologetically. I smile genuinely at my friend. 'Thanks, Sherlock.'

He pretends to take the appreciation words as a permission to raid my wallet for cash. _It's not like Angelo will let him pay anyway._

'Dinner will be ready in ten minutes', he lets me know.

I give him a small thankful smile before letting my head sag back against the armchair – usually so comfortable, but not this time.

'Oh, fireplace!' Sherlock calls out as he follows my vague gaze to it. 'I can light the fireplace, the warmth always lowers your breathing rate when you're unwell, it must be soothing. I can do that.'

Well, I guess he can. Given that he started all this. Let's call it even after that, shall we? It's hardly fair to let Sherlock feel guilty over his actions for so long.

'Ta.'

He presses his lips thin to my monosyllabic answer and extrapolating it to reason about my condition, I see him hasten to the mantel to get the fire started.

It's just a few logs and ignition; how can you mess that?

I'm about to get an answer to my question – _superstitiously proving I shouldn't have asked_ – as both Sherlock and I stare at the weird flame colour coming out of the logs. 'Sherlock', I ask in my quietest voice, 'what have you done to our fireplace?'

The genius looks all confused for a couple of seconds, then he claps his hands together in a brilliant deduction mode. 'It was the stepdaughter in the Stevenson's case!' he proclaims. Then, realising I'm not following – _how could I? I was at work, not even heard of the case_ – he points out the brick red flames and explains: 'The stepdaughter has a medical condition and has full access to lithium in her medication. How else do you explain _that_?'

I blink for a couple of seconds. 'Sherlock, did someone get murdered in our living room?' He demurely shakes his head, and not at all grossed out by the thought. 'Then how did we get the murderer's logs on our fireplace?'

'Oh, _that_! I was going to test them for residues of what the murderer – that is, the stepdaughter – tried to destroy by fire but didn't have the time to light.'

'And you saved crime scene evidence in your fireplace.'

'No, _our fireplace_, John.'

I give him a look. He falls apart.

'I concede that it might have got mixed up with our supply, John. I think that's what happened. The murder is now one of Lestrade's cold cases. He'll be happy to know I solved it, nevertheless.'

_Yes, he will._ 'Right...' I sigh, looking at the strange red tinge in the flames, wearing off before our eyes.

_**.**_

'John?' Sherlock calls me after a few minutes pause, when he came to sit opposite me and stares, equally vacant, at the fire on the hearth.

'Yes, Sherlock?'

'Is it better now?'

I bite my lip instinctively. Maybe I don't want to tell him. Maybe I like to know, and feel, so easily that he cares and, overall, he feels bad for having been a jerk to me.

It was _just_ hot water. And _just_ maggots. And _just_ every little thing he carries on doing with absolutely no regard for his flatmate. I want him to remain feeling guilty, so can learn a lesson and be _nicer_ to me.

_I'd appreciate him being nice to me every once in a while._ But, you see, it's those little things that he does that make him... Sherlock. Let him solve a murder based on red flames and a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. If I was to contain Sherlock from being his flamboyant self, I'm not sure he'd still do his calling this well. And I can't have that. There are lives to save and his own sanity might be also strongly dependant on his freedom to be himself, unchanged, like we all love him best.

'I'm much better, Sherlock', I tell him at last, with a kind smile. I want to abate the worry lines out of his expression and bring out the sociopathic impression of a genius again, because that's how Sherlock likes to be.

_No one should change him._

'I will...' he starts, very seriously, 'I will pay attention, John.'

I know what he means. He doesn't like to verbalize it, but he's sorry and he'll do his best never to repeat his careless gestures. He will warn me, if he can, that the hot water is all gone and I'll get greeted by a spray of cold water that should send anyone berserk.

'The shower', I state calmly.

'Hm.'

'The maggots, too.'

'Hm.'

'Thanks.'

'And the checkered blanket.'

I frown. _What?_

He looks restless as he confesses like a kid fessing up to a mischief: 'I may have burnt a hole in it... It was an accident, really.'

I let a small smile come to lift my expression. 'It's fine', I tell him. 'Not even the first hole, and it's been like that ever since I moved in.'

Sherlock ponders that information slowly. _Well, it's almost a metaphor, isn't it? A hole in an afghan blanket for the former soldier that got shot in Afghanistan._

'You can use my blanket', he volunteers at last.

'The orange one? Sherlock, that looks like a NHS blanket. Did it come from an ambulance?'

He plays forgetful. 'Maybe.'

_The United States fifth amendment comes to mind..._

_Fine. Let him keep his secrets._

Downstairs doorbell rings and I recall we were waiting for food to get delivered. As Sherlock moves out to rescue it and tries to pay (no one will take payment, Angelo is very strict on that when the delivery address is Baker Street), I let myself close my eyes as the warmth eases the last remnants of tension on my shoulder.

I fall asleep before Sherlock comes back upstairs.

_**.**_

I wake up hours later, possibly in the middle of the night, judging by the darkness that has descended over the street outside. Very weak electric light comes in through the curtain gaps at the two windows, enough only to discern the quiet form of a sleeping consulting detective. My friend is peacefully asleep in the long sofa. On the coffee table I find signs of what he's been up to in my absence. The pizza box lies open with two pieces missing – that's a success for Sherlock's eating patterns – and the violin is put down on the other end of the table – away from any grease or pepperoni.

I realise he played his violin for me, played to help me sleep soundly, because he knows I sleep better when I let my mind drift along the melodic lines of his beautiful music. And his gift, more than any other this evening, makes my eyes water and my heart warmer. Because I know Sherlock played his beloved violin to help me, to keep me safe. And it was a gesture born solely out of friendship, not tainted by guilt or its consequences. He wasn't searching for the redemption I had already granted him, he was telling me he cares. He really does, even if occasionally – or often – he does mistakes that might cast doubt on that.

_I'll never doubt again._

Of course, Sherlock better never pull that same stunt with the hot water again or I just might punch him.

_I think..._

_**.**_


	165. Chapter 165

_A/N: Hope this format is not too confusing. Two parts. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 1st part .**_

_Dear John,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Things in London have remained very much the same, while I recognise that Lestrade's cases have bored me of late, thus allowing this melancholic contemplation, so uncharacteristic in me. In a few minutes to spare from my frequent consultations with the New Scotland Yard, the Metropolitan Police force and the British Government, I've found myself drawn to a cold case that mysteriously found its way to my desk. Mrs Hudson must have been, despite all indications in contrary from me, dusting again... I have decided to ask for your candid advice, like it so often amused and entertained me, misguided and flawed as it inevitably turns out to be when scrutinised by a cold reasoning lenses. I should, therefore, hope that you also find yourself in the similar circumstance of having a few minutes to spare on an answering letter._

That's Sherlock alright; pompous like there's no tomorrow. Only surpassed by his older brother Mycroft Holmes. Taking all his "spare minutes" writing this lengthy introduction on a letter. Wasting his time on a prelude of a case he won't detail yet.

It's as if he's carefully threading ground, sensing the waters. As far as I know, nothing has changed between us. I'm still an awed fan of his work, and privileged to be a part of it. If I can't be by his side in person, then I'll gladly take second best, and drink in the written recollection of my familiar London, friends and cases.

No matter the prosaic format, I couldn't say I don't appreciate Sherlock's contact; that would be an outright lie. One doesn't move halfway across the world to a distant foreign land at war without getting a bit emotional about missing home.

Afghanistan has hardly changed, nor have the dangers lurking on roadsides, the rumours of approaching insurgent raids, the camaraderie between us soldiers, the thankfulness of the locals who have by now grown far too accustomed to the war.

I've joined my former regiment, the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, once more on a mission in unstable territory. It's just a three months deployment in a fairly secure area. Patrols, medic tent, rebuilding basic structures for the locals, those are the areas that fill the most of my days.

Sherlock stayed behind in London, much to his dismay.

London is where Sherlock belongs; and perhaps this desolate place is where I belong. I've never been able to fully leave it behind.

_The circumstances are pressing, John. This cold case has so much enthralled my attention that I've come to wonder how other cases have been able to conspire to get my attention first. However unfaithful to the mystery that now calls me like a mermaid siren chant to a lost fisherman at sea, I will not burden you with its complex details without your acquiescence. In writing. I'd gladly take verbal confirmation, John, but I'll settle for a signed declaration with your name._

_Please make sure to reply timely to this missive, John._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders as I reach the end of the letter. I mustn't forget the rest of the mess tent where fellow soldiers make a lively background noise as we're preparing for a new day. Davies, Jones and Walker are establishing contact with the locals. Chandler and I are on call at the medic tent. That should keep us busy.

Without the grace of "a few minutes to spare" on an answering letter, I fold the high quality paper scribbled in my friend's handwriting and stick it in a pocket of my fatigues for safe keeping. The small smile lingering on my expression, from that precious connection to Sherlock and home, in the form of a letter, is enough to keep me going till I can answer him.

_**.**_

_Hi, Sherlock,_

_Forgive me if I'm being too straight forward, but time here is scarce and a war does tend to make one forsake all lyrical embellishments (mermaids, really, Sherlock?) and go for the basic message. I'm really glad you wrote. I half believed you wouldn't. It's great to hear news from you and London. You'd probably tell me London doesn't give two straws for my concern over it, but I can't help it. I'd love to know about our friends, and your cases (all of them, even the cold cases Mrs Hudson puts on your desk; or maybe it had such a thick layer of dust over it before she cleaned that you hadn't noticed it). I also want to make sure you eat, rest and work at the correct relative proportions. I'm still your friend, and doctor, from afar. Let me know about that too._

Holly...! That was close!

_Shit, there's been a landmine explosion out there. I'm needed, I must go. Make sure you take care,_

_John_

_**.**_

_Dear John, _

_I find it very disconcerting that your letter writing is interrupted by landmines exploding in close vicinity of the compound. I have unsuccessfully researched news databases in seven different languages and regional dialects to inquire about the aforementioned IED, but failed to retrieve significant data. Even the MI5 servers seem to be apathetic to the incident you mentioned. I have, accordingly, decided to discard my concerns over the structural stability of the military buildings where you focus your work and rest. Please notify me ASAP of suspicious looking breaches and cracks on support walls if you spot any. I shall pass on to the highest ranking ministers the urgent need for repairs._

Sherlock, you're blowing this way out of proportion, mate!

Anyway...

_As to London, the city insists on being extremely predictable. The best criminals are either at the hold of the Ministry of Justice thanks to us or have gone into some sort of seasonal hibernation I cannot explain. This latter keeps me hopeful, however, of an imminent peak in London's general interest._

_I will timely agree, nevertheless, that this "no interesting crimes spree" satisfactorily coincides with your absence._

_Your friends are okay and have been duly pressed to double the output of letters to you, as per your request._

What? No! I didn't!

_This cold case I've mentioned pertains a missing individual of the highest importance. Following the principles of reason and deduction you are undoubtedly familiar with, I've decided to construct the unsub's profile and analyse it. This is where your invaluable help comes to the picture, John. Although highly unlikely you'll know this person, I would appreciate your perception of their character through the detailed description I'll endeavour to deliver you through these letters. Even if romanticised, your insight is often a valuable tool I've come to add to my own observations. You see, your expertise on human nature is an area where I've come to understand I may be somewhat lacking at times._

_I would much rather speak to you in person - the skull is a insufficient replacement although pleasantly acquiescent - but the geographical distance between us and the lack of a solid internet connection to support videoconference 24/7 forces me to communicate through pen._

_We're pen pals now, John, and I don't particularly like it; but I take the chance to communicate with you gratefully._

_221B is much the same, for Mrs Hudson has taken up some of your usual OCDs in your absence. She cooks, cleans and makes me tea as if she believes me lost without the help. I must say I start enjoying her company, and often we speak of past cases and you, and of late I find myself leaving the flat less and less. Somehow crime scenes and the Yard are less and less appealing to me as the days stretch out. Mrs Hudson is convinced I'm brooding over your absence. I'll take this fortuitous opportunity to tell you I resent such absurd notion._

_Crime scenes have just lost some of their shine, which is perfectly understandable as per the reasons I explained earlier. Also, History has proven, and it's scientifically demonstrable, that there are highs and lows in the panorama of Crime in London. With the late Moriarty missing from the stage, I wait anxiously for the next mastermind to climb the ladder of dark power. It has yet to turn up someone minimally satisfactory._

_Please let me know if you'd be up to this little favour I ask of you, and feel free to spend some extra minutes detailing your daily life and achievements._

_Yours, _

_Sherlock Holmes_

**.**

_Sherlock._

_Never - ever - tell me you want the nut job Moriarty back._

_Yours,_

_John_

_**.**_

_Dear John,_

_I realise apologies are in order. When I wished Jim Moriarty back I meant him only as my archenemy, without entailing the destruction of London, the endangering of thousands of lives and, mostly, without ever having you in harm's way. This being said, I believe wasting a weekly letter to tell me off in eleven scarce words is a bit harsh._

_I also notice you haven't approved of your involvement in my cold case and accordingly I'll refrain from mentioning it again._

_I'm still hopeful that you can let me know the quality of life you have there and if there's something Mycroft can do to improve it - he's about to owe me a favour or two._

_Mrs Hudson whished to send you one of her lemon drizzle cakes but cannot find an exact address. Perhaps you could provide one, since the MoD denies the information to civilians and I'm owing a favour to Mycroft already._

_Yours loyally, _

_Sherlock_

_**.**_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I'm the one who must apologise. Life here is not that tricky, especially given I'm a war veteran so I know the drill, but the anxiousness does get to us and I'm afraid I lashed out a bit too fast. I didn't mean to come out this harsh. Anderson - well, not crime scene Anderson, obviously, this one is a Corporal - lost a lot of blood on the operating table. It was hard to put him together and it took six hours straight. Not that I'm complaining, I wouldn't, but I get tired - do you get that?_

_I lashed out because I'm tired and being pushed to the limit. It's not a true reflection on you, Sherlock, or your loyalty and friendship, and its constancy, that I truly appreciate from my heart._

_Please let me know about your case. I need one of your cases to focus myself on, and remind me of the London I left behind, and Baker Street, and the gang._

_I hope I didn't put you off._

_If "Mrs Hudson" wanted to know my exact address other than "Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers attachment to the British Core, Kandahar - Afghanistan", or something along those lines, she would have told me in her lovely letter. I will not, however, forget I've been promised a lemon drizzle cake, Sherlock._

_Yours sincerely,_

_John_

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	166. Chapter 166

_A/N: In which the expression is heard in John's mind, and not necessarily spoken. If "it's not within the rules", then "the rules are wrong!" -csf_

* * *

_**. 2nd part .**_

_Dear John,_

_I do not appreciate your overindulgence in fretting over the incident. So just drop it, John. I trust you'll remember I'm not easily put off in the future. And if telling me off soothes the strains left in the wake of your generous work there then I'll stoically accept the burden._

_My offer to extract you from Afghanistan in under five hours remains, should you give me the get go. I understand you may get bored of being a soldier at some point._

Sherlock, being a soldier is who I am. I won't just get bored and pressed the Pause button. Much unlike some geniuses...

_We can also arrange a safe word if you feel that our communications are compromised. Just say the words. I would be only too happy to see you returned to your regular position at your armchair, by the lit fireplace._

_I would like to see your familiar face as I tell you about this dusty cold case. John Doe is an average man who seems determined to live an ordinary life. He looks like any other British male, perhaps a bit short being five foot six. I could go on about his work but it's tedious. Or about going to the pub with his mates, but you'd know better about that than me. Perhaps you'd be more curious about what makes him tick. His friends at the pub say nothing makes him tick. John Doe is easy going, ordinary, a guy just like any other. It makes a lot of sense and yet it makes no sense at all._

_I'm puzzled, you see. It'd hardly be a case, if this man hadn't left his home all of a sudden, with little to no explanation. Government secrecy has been brought up as a possible explanation and kidnapping by foreign spies has successfully been ruled out._

_I need your views on this case, if you'd be so obliging, John._

_You may count on the lemon drizzle cake upon your arrival._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

_**.**_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_There is hardly any need for a safe word. If there was, however, I'd not arrange for one by the same communication method that has been spied on, right?_

_Also, five foot six is not short. Just think about it! Maybe you forget that I'm five foot six..._

_John Doe sounds like a regular bloke. I assume he's around my age or a bit younger, and has no close family. I mean, if he had a wife and kids, you'd be telling me about them. So I guess he's more of a lonely guy? I don't know, maybe he decided to go travel the world since no one was missing him?_

_Go find people who knew him and pay attention to how they describe him. Even ordinary people can be more than just dull. You need to try harder, and dig deeper, Sherlock. And anyway the fresh air outside will be good for you. I remember when-_

_Crap, not again! The Second Lieutenant is crashing, I need to go save the bastard's life again!_

_Yours_

_**.**_

_Dear John,_

_I believe you are sure we don't need a safe word. If we did, however, we'd use the expression that I shouted when opening Miss Adler's safe. Sorted._

_Do tell your nuisance patients to allow you some free time for correspondence. They need to learn to share you, John._

_As to our cold case, I can successfully recount that I followed your advice and acquired further information on this John Doe._

_If you can believe, it just so happens he has a military background. Again, John, you seem to be the most reasonable assistant to guide me through the meanders of his psyche._

_Do you believe his military background could have influenced his decision to leave abruptly? Bibliography sources mention the unsettled lives of sailors but there is no direct mention of soldiers._

_It may be added that John Doe has not closed his bank accounts or cancelled his magazines subscriptions. He has, however, packed before he left. The missing items from his place include a few clothes, toiletries, phone and passport, but no insightful missing item has been identified._

_Yours sincerely, _

_Sherlock_

_**.**_

_Dear Sherlock, _

_Do you mean "Vatican Cameos"?_

_I can't write much because I've hardly slept. Lots of gunfire around here. I'm safe, we're safe. We managed to hold strong._

_I can hardly write English and that's my language, so I just wanted to let you know I'm fine and I'll think about your case._

_Sorry, I really need a nap. Your exhausted blogger,_

_John_

_**.**_

_Dear John,_

_Yes, I did mean that one. Now we need a new safe word expression and I'm worried that you are not getting enough sleep. Clarifying with the said expression was clearly the work of an exhausted mind. The fact that you've let on about armed conflict at your door is further disturbing._

_I can forget sometimes that you are at war. It's so easy to imagine you by my side when I'm waiting for your input on a case._

_Have you had the chance to consider the cold case? DI Lestrade has been approached for an honest opinion as a reference point of view from a law enforcement personnel, but has been unhelpful at best. He has, however, been quite at a sparkling form when he bluntly pointed out that if John Doe had wished to make his departure known to his friends, he'd have told them in advance._

_I'm not yet sure he hasn't, because his friends are egotistical and take him for granted way too often. That is to say, Doe's plans may have been mentioned in passing but not fully taken in by his audience._

_I find that deeply regretful._

_Doe is a quiet __military man, full of friends who don't know him fully. Still, that is only cosmetics when it comes to answering the deeper question of his voluntary disappearance. John, why did he leave and disappear? Am I missing the obvious?_

_Waiting for your reply eagerly,_

_Sherlock_

_**.**_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It's okay, I really didn't need a safe word, anyway. And you were right. I had been on patrol for a long night and took the chance to write you an extra letter but at the expense of my clarity of mind._

_It sounds like John Doe grew restless on his everyday life. Perhaps he didn't let that on to his friends, not giving them the chance to help him. Perhaps leaving was the best course of action he could have taken, giving he must have somehow felt trapped, lost, stuck. Perhaps I'm being fanciful here. I still have quite a few hours of sleep to catch up with, after all._

_You say John Doe is military. I'm military too. Do you want to give me his true name and his ranking in the army so I can see if I dig up some information on him?_

Well, that's happening right on cue, innit? I never get the chance to write peacefully to my friend.

_Sherlock, it's the two nurses bickering again. I'd comeback to this letter but I know by previous experience that sorting them out takes forever. You'd know better, but I suspect they're having an affair and it's definitely not about the medicine cabinet._

_Yours truly,_

_John_

_**.**_

_Dear John, _

_I'm delighted as I look at the calendar for your return and it is ever more imminent. I believe three months worth of hermit status should be plenty to spark a wish for the familiar sights of London. As commendable as your work there undoubtedly is, I much would appreciate the return of my blogger. There are several pressing cases flowing in, luckily, and I trust you'll approve of them._

_No dark lord has yet risen in London, alas, although I believe that is also to your approval._

_As to the cold case Mrs Hudson has deliberately planted on my desk when disgracefully disarranging it, I'm proud to report I solved its more superficial layers. I trust you have enough insight to make full sense of it now._

_Mrs Hudson and the rest of your customary friends wish for me to remind you they are alright. They seem to believe this information must be passed on and is of the utmost important. Sounds a bit vain to me, but I'll leave such judgements for you._

_Knowing this is probably the last letter I send you with enough stamps to reach Afghanistan, your faithful pen pal,_

_Sherlock_

_**.**_

I lower Sherlock's letter with cold fingers, trembling in anticipation. He's absolutely right. My time here is almost done. Soon I'll return to London and see my friend in person.

I suppose I have enough time to jolt down one last letter as well, but I find that I couldn't quite add any new information in it. As always, most of my conversations with Sherlock are silently fulfilled in the subtext.

Perhaps it's best I pack up my belongings. The truck about to give a lift out of the compound will be here soon enough.

Not much to pack, but some things I won't risk leaving behind. The stack of letters under my dog tags included.

They've been as precious as oxygen to me.

_**.**_

_"Dear Sherlock, I'm coming home"_ is too obvious and too little all at once.

_"Dear Sherlock, I'm writing this last letter"... _Hm, ugh!

_"Dear Sherlock, your cold case is solved, you said, but I don't quite get it and"_...

_"Dear Sherlock"..._

I'm not sending it.

_**.**_

I walk through the airport like a man in a trance. My steps are numb, my head feels impossibly filled with cotton wool. I walk forward by sheer force of habit. I've done this return before, after other deployments. Well, not after I got shot, no, that was different.

This is my first comeback since. It feels oddly fulfilling and strangely detached all at once.

This is what could have been, if that bullet missed me. This is the alternative universe where Sherlock and I wouldn't have met.

I'm not entirely sure what to feel about that.

Sherlock. He's the one who makes this return a journey home.

I've gone far away and all this time Sherlock's been trying to understand why I left.

So he asked me. Covertly.

I've been John Doe, the MIA man, all along.

I didn't notice.

A military man of my height, working a dull job and surrounded by mates who don't really know him enough. And one mad detective that possessively will not let go.

As I walk past security and passport checks I realise I just want to go home. To stop running. To put down my bags on the floor and breathe it in. To be home, to feel safe, more than just a hollowed survival mode copy of myself.

As I was back at the war, I concentrated on surviving. I tried not thinking too much. It was best that way. Live in the moment, fight every turn of the way. That I can stop and relax and let the soldier mask fall at last, seems to be a blessing.

Smiles, childish giggles and names called out in a variety of languages mark the arrivals area of this London airport. Home is still a good while away, but I appreciate all the small graces. Shop signs written in English, gift shops items adorned with the Union Jack motif, pictures of London as an appetizer for tourists coming in. Sometimes it's the small things that surprise you with a misplaced homely vibe.

Still feels a bit hollow, but I suppose that's normal, and it shall fade with time.

As I exit the arrivals barrier into the sea of passengers and greeters, someone suddenly steps in front of me. I look up from the floor markings and anonymous feet and luggage I circled numbly to find the familiar form of my friend. He's just standing there, immobile. His gaze is the only tell that he's alive, as it trembles, locked on me. He takes me in inch by inch, drunkenly taking it all in at incredible speed, every minute hint that my creased army clothes, my haggard expression or the way I hold my canvas army bag can silently tell him.

My canvas bag falls onto the floor beside me with a good thump.

I don't remember letting go.

I won't look either.

My world is centred on the one person that instantly encapsulates and gives me the feeling of home.

Sherlock's gaze softens in the same instant. Still immobile, still silent, as if he fears any decision on his part can harm me.

I close the gap between us with an impulsive and well-meant embrace.

Maybe I'm mad. I'm hugging the last man in the world who'd ever want such close proximity with another human being. I must sober up, I must let go and control myself, I must-

Slowly his fingers touch my back over the dusty army fatigues that still carry metaphorically the weight of the past three months. I can feel his fingertips linger over my uniform ever so tentatively, then slowly but surely deepening and gaining intention. As if they waited for permission to return the full pledged hug he's now enveloping me in, tight and getting tighter, almost chocked full of withheld emotions.

'You needn't come', I mutter, and I'm startled by how broken I sound, how blaringly obvious is the lie in my words.

'That's not true', he states, maybe pointing out the lie, maybe telling me coming here and speeding our reunion was the one sane option he could choose. After all, I feel quite the same. We have this unhealthy co-dependency we must abide by.

'You never wrote back, John.'

I shake my head, still not letting go - regardless of the weird out puzzled looks we're being subjected to.

'I did, but in the end I decided to deliver it in person.'

'Oh', he plays along softly. 'Did you solve the cold case?'

'Yes, I did.' I finally let go of my friend and try to regain some composure as I helplessly brush off the creases in my fatigues. Sherlock, however, does nothing to resume the usual pristine nature if his sharp suits. 'You see, Sherlock, it turns out John Doe was wrong. He felt trapped in his life, and sure he wasn't making a difference. In his selfless gesture trying to find a place where his presence was actually important, where he'd be missed and valued, he actually ended up leaving behind the one home where he could make all the difference in the world... It only took travelling halfway around the world for him to discover his place had been where he was all along.'

'You are very important, John', Sherlock tells me with a frown. 'Your friends, your work, our work. If none of those gives you enough fulfilment then allow me to state that I find that I need you in my life too, John. And letter writing is just too aggravating as a method to rely on.'

I smirk in agreement. Letter writing kept me sane, but now I look back on it I feel like a man who's been deprived for too long.

'Let's go home, Sherlock. My work is done.'

'All work and no play makes you a dull boy', Sherlock quotes the saying, innocently. As he takes in my surprise, casually waiting by his side, he smirks, deeply amused. 'I had time to work on that one.'

I shrug. Sherlock will always surprise, I need to get again used to that feeling.

Before I can react, he takes the canvas bag with the letterings on the side and hauls it to his shoulder. With Sherlock sharing my load, we both set off from the airport, heading to Baker Street. Home.

_**.**_


	167. Chapter 167

_A/N: _A very slow Friday brought me here. -csf

* * *

_**.**_

Working with Sherlock Holmes is often like being sucked into a mad vortex. It's exhilarating, dangerous and fulfilling.

The genius has just dragged me to the latest crime scene, dispensing little to no words at all to his all-in-one blogger, forensic assistant and PA. Not that he was aiming at secrecy or trying to get past me a morally dubious client or case. The reason for his muted state was fairly mundane. Sherlock was desperately immerged in his case from the start.

The cab ride from the Surgery, where he picked me up on his way over, was spent in chastised silence, as Sherlock mercilessly pondered the case in profound abstractions of his own, invisible to me, no matter the geographical proximity. By the time we got to this old theatre, DI Lestrade was already at the scene and he gravely welcomed us here.

The theatre felt cold and damp against one of the first spring days of the year, we had left outside. It was like receding into the depths of some lost forgotten world.

_And in a way that's what I did soon after._

Lestrade, Sherlock and I walked along the familiar faces on the forensics team down to the orchestra pit. The dead body is long gone (stabbing, mysteriously performed during the concert, with no one but murderer and victim noticing) and Sherlock did his thing as he fluttered around the musical instruments left behind in the crowded space, checking for clues, verifying the validity of his early theories, getting the technicians work continuously interrupted and miserable. And then, all of a sudden, Sherlock was spewing out a fast paced monologue on how it had been done (both the smuggling of the weapon - concealed as a long thin blade inside a transversal flute - and the stabbing - during the play of the third compass in the classical composition), who had opportunity given the strategic placement within the musicians' seating arrangements, why hadn't the conductor seen it happen, how had the music's climax been waited for in order to hide the painful gasp as the weapon slid in, and why the missing clue was a single high note left out - clearly visible from the recorded video, that was expected according to the scores abandoned on the floor at the panic that ensued. Only experienced musicians would have known it was coming (cue Sherlock Holmes), and a lonely music critic in the back row noticed quietly, thus writing a nasty review that got posted online already.

Once Sherlock's deductions speech was done, and the evil musician had been outed, the consulting detective took advantage of his baffled audience to briskly vanish from the rest of us in full blazing glory, leaving us too stunned to react at once. Next thing, Lestrade was running after Sherlock, and so was I. The trouble was my trouser cuff got caught at the drums and I was delayed. Not even my noisy stumble (that sent some instruments to the floor) delayed my friend's brisk pace. By the time I got myself free of my restraints they were long gone and I had little to no clues as to where they had vanished to.

The last elements of the Yard's investigating team followed shortly, as soon as I took a puzzled seat behind the harps. Waiting for a contact from Sherlock through my phone or to be picked up like some toddler after kindergarten is done. _It's impossible to keep up with Sherlock's speed in swiftly moving about once he's got a good head start._

Being surrounded by silent silhouettes of music, I let myself drift along in my thoughts, feeling a bit tired after a long day's work.

I may have become a bit fanciful, even.

I let my mind connect the dots between Sherlock Holmes and his music, and how much they've intertwined in the short time I've known him. _And that time when I lost him._

I missed him, after Reichenbach, after the end of a dear friendship and the chaos of loss it brought about. Some small part of me felt like the hope I had found fresh upon lodging at Baker Street was now bitter and tainted. The moments shared became one lost inconsequential stream of happy times, before pain was due once again - always again - to crush me. I missed Sherlock like a lost part of me that was never to come back. Corrupted of its innocence, that could never be returned. I felt that hurt as a new monstrous part of me - like the guilt I couldn't quite forgive myself - that I would be carrying for the rest of my life. I missed him like I missed hope and love, and human connection.

I never told Sherlock that much. It's one of those things we keep silent between us. I don't know why. It's just more comfortable this way. Maybe we're both damaged. Maybe we're afraid of how much the unspoken words that revel in our everyday actions can break us if we free them out loud.

_In those days, hope was a scarce commodity I grabbed onto for dear life._

Small things could undo me. Like walking by someone in a long wool coat on the street or hear a solo played classical piece. It was so associated with Sherlock that it just about hurt to recognise it coming from somewhere else. My friend had died, and so should all the expression of what was so characteristically him.

In unsure fingers I hold out for a musical instrument laying abandoned on a seat nearby. _A violin; what else?_ Not the right violin, that's safe at Baker Street. This is someone else's violin. The musician had to leave it out for the Yarders, I suppose. Maybe they didn't count on much inspection. They certainly didn't count on me picking it up with trembling fingers, embedding it with a borrowed spirit it doesn't carry. _It could have been Sherlock's violin._

_It could have been mine._

I take the precious instrument - and its intense connection to sanity - and bring it up to my chin, as I stand up straight.

In the vastness of the empty theatre where I stand isolated and out of earshot, I find the duskiness tranquillising and all encompassing. I don't feel exposed, I don't need to feel ashamed. I can close my eyes and run the bow over the tight sensitive strings, make them quiver musically at the flow of my unspoken thoughts.

_**.**_

_Sentimentality_. I guess that's what it was.

In a time when feelings were so raw and overwhelming, I let them rule with the force of a tidal wave washing over me. Instinctively I knew healing could only come with full feeling of the terrible reality. Numbness would only have delayed the reward at the end of the journey.

Mostly I managed to act and pretend some degree of functional normalcy. Being quite some months after the Reichenbach events, I wasn't expected to be found still morning, still reeling after seeing my best friend jump to the Unknown. I was expected to soldier on, to be an outstanding example of strength, to pull myself together; because in our partnership, I was the one who handled the emotional aspects. I was supposed to know what to do in order to carry on proudly, making justice to Baker Street's past. In reality, I was feeling lost, dreading to find myself at the long empty hours of the night that I was spending awake, too pained to sleep.

Don't get me wrong. I had used up the "phone a friend" card more times than a game show contestant on the telly desperate to win the grand prize. Greg Lestrade was one who always answered. Mrs Hudson would often initiate contacts to me, not waiting for my decision to call her, never fooled that I was "doing fine". Molly was the one I couldn't call; she had seen a broken Sherlock on the slab and I wouldn't call the woman who knew so vividly it was all over, my friendship with her tainted by the image of Sherlock on the pavement. I was fearful she'd mention it. Just a mere reference to that graphic memory was enough to bring tremors to my body. There were other friends, who knew Sherlock perhaps a bit less, but wherever I turned, everyone seemed to have been caught by the whirlwind spell of Sherlock Holmes. Leaving me bound to have to talk and share about my loss; and sometimes it was just too much at one time, and I evaded going to meet them. My vulnerable sanity in need of being preserved.

_I still didn't know what to do with all my spare time._

_I remember it was Sherlock's birthday._ I had forced myself out into the world out of a sense of duty - nevertheless avoiding familiar streets and faces as had become very much my routine. I was walking around the other side of London - better to walk my restlessness off than to brood for days on end indoors - when I went past a charity shop with an overcrowded window. _That's where I saw it._ A student's violin. And as ordinary as the object appeared, it made universal sense to me.

_This was what I missed._

The violin sound lulling me to sleep.

Resurrecting my friend for the duration of my assault on its strings.

And - maybe, just _maybe_ \- if I practised a lot and played well enough, I could close my eyes and pretend I wasn't so alone.

It was misguiding my pain, I knew that. Skewing my healing by sidetracking my grief process. But it felt violently right to punish myself in a position where I desperately tried to emulate my friend, reaching for a degenerated simile of a forlorn friend, and make my missing him a bit softer for once.

I went in and bought the violin.

I'm not a musician, though. I know the basics of reading a score and can name the chords, or some of them. I had a mountain of learning to go through, and this mundane task was so appealing. It was the first time I felt a strong connection to reality after Reichenbach, having spent most of my days in a confused haze of pained memories. It felt refreshing, hopeful, nourishing. It felt like healing. As if in my own way I was integrating my lost friend as an undeniable part of me I shall never lose; and that was just Right.

I was perhaps guiding my pain into a feasible material task at hand, one I could conquer, and control. Deceiving myself, essentially. Learning to emulate Sherlock's violin playing couldn't bring him back, couldn't make up for the fact that he was dead.

No matter the senselessness of my self-imposed task, I persevered. It gave meaning to my evenings. And maybe, if I just closed my eyes long enough and strained to let my imagination flow, I could pretend I had my friend back for the duration of a Bach's concerto or another of his usual pieces.

Of course mine came out as a pale copy of the greatness Sherlock could achieve with his virtuous fingers and instrument.

Nevertheless such degraded copy of virtuousness, it made my memories flow back, crystalline and beautiful, and brought a smile onto my face.

_I missed my best mate._

_**.**_

There's a painful rawness in one's sincerest monologues. Not expecting an audience clears away all signs of self-consciousness and reduces our social persona to a murmured background noise. I'm not talking to an audience. I'm not communicating with others. I'm exploding in my need to vent and let it be known the burdens I carry deep within. My silent hollers are a way to ease the constriction that still claws at my chest at times, this incredible feeling of loss, hurt and pain. Warning me that the happiest life one has ever known could again be swept off from under me, as it has before, leading me so close to insanity.

I've endured, not out of strength, but out of respect for the ones I lost.

It all fades into a crystalline cool breeze in the background as the first shrilling notes float through the silence, enchanting me.

They follow the steps of better melodies, better times, better dreams, heard once before.

My sincerest thanks in the form of imitation.

Because Sherlock has saved my life, of that I'm sure. Even if I couldn't quite repay him the grandiose gesture, generously offered. Not when it counted, anyway.

The melody turns mournful and slow as I slowly drift the bow to match my mood.

I can't help feeling I let Sherlock down. Even if now I know it was a farce, I still wonder if there was something I could have done to have been in the loop, to have sailed off to the sunset alongside Sherlock. If he could have trusted me more.

The crazy moments we shared. The giggles at a crime scene, the complicity of a well-timed gunshot fired when he risked his life to divert the murderer's attention and I swooped in to finish the job, those long nights we sat sharing Baker Street by the lit fireplace.

My music turns and becomes warmer, richer, deeper, fuelled by some sort of hope, sweetness, fulfilment. What Sherlock and I had shared, not even death could erase. It was mine to carry forever.

The rhythm picks up as I haste to bring the melody to completion. I know somewhere along the way I missed a key or two, but the flawed nature of my soliloquy just highlights the story it recounts. No matter how many stories I go through, I will never fully explain my friendship with Sherlock and how much it meant to me.

I let go of the sweet frail friction of the violin strings and lower the bow before I slowly open my eyes to the dusk around me.

I'm completely thrown off-guard as I recognise the familiar but immobile shape of Sherlock Holmes, striking against the background. He came back, realising his faithful blogger was no longer trailing after him.

_How long has he been standing there, listening in?_

This is an unspoken confession I wanted to keep secret, and it feels like a violation of my secrets that he's been eavesdropping on my self-expression.

Because if someone could make sense of my secret language, it's got to be Sherlock.

I firm my jaw and defiantly look at my friend. I won't break the silence, I won't betray the secret laid out.

Sherlock seems to get the seriousness of my stance and merely turns around to leave, silently. I follow. My second chance to catch up with him.

It's going to be a silent cab ride back to Baker Street.

_**.**_

'You learnt to play the violin because of me.'

Sherlock's cool words startle me in the dusk of 221B. I turn around with a warm cup of tea in my hand and find him occupying his usual place at the leather modernist armchair.

Not _because of you_, Sherlock. _For_ _you_. For the memories I had left of you.

In a way, I was trying to keep my lost friend firmly close to me. Afraid I'd forget all the little things that made him great. If I just let one side of him get lost in the overhauls of time, what else might get lost with it?

I close my eyes, fighting this overwhelming feeling of shame. Sherlock is alive, and all the ritualistic behaviours I engaged in sound so silly, so stupid, so worthless; given that the man I missed was alive all along. My gestures have become a travesty, a stupid dramatic show of deranged emotions, as I lost my footing in reality. I mourned the death of a person still alive and nothing - _nothing_ \- can ever make up for that flaw in logic. I'm a doctor. Even with a slight concussion, I shouldn't have misdiagnosed Death. It's the ultimate mistake for a physician. It's an obvious statement of incompetence.

The irony that all along I was in pain because of my own flawed work is never too shy to make its presence known.

Because I believed Sherlock could actually do something this terrible, that he'd let his inner demons win over the life we had.

I was so ready to believe I had failed him. Because I had been feeling him slipping away. It wasn't just a momentary thing. It had built up for months or more.

That day I saw mirrored in him the same destruction I had fought down in me for a long time and I knew Sherlock had beaten me to it.

He had kept me from my darkness but I had failed him somehow. Knowing so much about it made me not being able to hate him for his choice. In a way this inside knowledge should been cathartic, but I just couldn't bring myself to recognise it. Hardly fair when the man, knowingly or not, saved my life. In so many ways.

'John?'

Sherlock speaks softly to me, calling me to the present moment with an understanding that contradicts all of his self intituled sociopath labels.

'Sherlock', I meet his eyes at last.

'I've troubled you with my words', he states observationally.

'No', I lie mechanically in the same breath._ What else am I expected to do? We don't talk about this things. _They are painfully raw to the both of us. Words are incomplete, misunderstandings abound.

'John.' He insists in calling me to reason with just the use of my name and warm rich intonations.

It strikes at my core and I find that I need to sit down in my armchair, nearby.

'Yes', I admit at last. 'I self taught myself some skills with a violin. Not much. I'm not talented, I guess. I was just spending my time.'

'And the violin?' he starts. I'm not quite sure about the question it entails.

'Kept on some dusty box somewhere, I believe.'

'You didn't use mine.'

_Of course not. It was your beloved precious violin._ I wouldn't corrupt it with my shallow attempts. 'No, I didn't.'

'Just drop it, John. Aside the fact that I was dead and you don't believe in ghosts, avenging or of any other type, I'm actually not that selfish. I'd have been happy with having you using my precious violin, John. I normally don't let anyone touch it, but you're not just anyone.'

_Ta. That's kind._

'I play really badly... Actually, you heard me. What did you make of it?'

'It sounded like a beginner', he admits without sugar coating his answer.

'Yeah, your violin was made for better musicians than me.'

'It was made for me', he admits. Whether by order at a shop or by skill set. 'So it should be sufficient for you, John.'

'I couldn't', I finally admit.

He clears his throat. 'Because I was dead.'

_Pretty much._

'So', he carries on without waiting for a spoken answer, 'will you play my violin for me now that I'm alive?'

I know why he's asking this hard task of me. I've come full circle. He's alive _again_ and I have little excuse to reverentially leave his beloved violin untouched.

'I'm really a terrible musician, Sherlock.'

'I think that hardly matters, John.' With big bright hopeful eyes he asks: 'One of my favourite Bach's concertos, if you'd be so obliging?'

I smirk. He knows my chosen repertoire by instinct. It's smug and vain and so utterly _Sherlock_ that it brings a certain moisture to my eyes. With a proud nod I take the violin he's got out of its velvet case and has extended me with full confidence. Its touch is so warm and soft and reverent that I feel another pang of self-doubt washing over me. I glance at my friend but he insists, meaningfully: 'Go on. I'd say you've had enough time to practise, don't you think, John?'

_The lovable git is right._

I take the violin and position it under my chin. Like my gun I favoured my right hand when learning to use it and so Sherlock's violin strings are actually set up the right way round for me. It feels natural and I let my eyes drift close as I pull to memory the melody I'm attempting to retrace.

It doesn't get awkward as I expected. In a way, it's as if Sherlock has always been there when I played and nothing has changed all that much.

Sherlock lets go of a soft sigh and leans back to his armchair, making himself comfortable.

I'm sure his violin is screeching in torture but the owner acts like it's pure bliss. Because he knows he's listening to my secret phrasings of longing and treasured memories. He knows we've got a second chance. He knows how thankful we both are. It's enough to fill Baker Street with a homely feel for another fresh start.

**.**

* * *

_2ndA/N: Guest reviewer amybeth has let me know: "Just a note to point out that unless the player has a serious physical malformation of the left hand, all classical violinists finger with the left and bow with the right". Apologies from the inconsistencies, therefore. There's another one for the list; still not British, a writer or a musician! Also, kindly remember John was, in all odds, not being modest when he said he was terrible at Bach. I fancy Sherlock enjoys well performed music, but he might just have a soft spot for John's dedicated performance just the same. -csf_


	168. Chapter 168

_A/N: I'll need a little faith on old Sherlock, the child genius that often does all the wrong things for all the right reasons._

_Or in me – I suppose that's more honest – and how much I like happier endings._

_This line came to mind, one sleepy morning, during the first few sips of coffee: "you're very different from the last one, John". It's tantalising, explosive and abrasive. _

_ I'm not sure where this is going, if I'm being honest. More parts to come. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 1**_

Mycroft Holmes said something. A laconic, sarcastic comment under his breath, nothing more.

"You're very different from the last one, John."

I've long learnt, from firsthand experience, not to disregard Mycroft's comments. The man is as much of a genius as Sherlock himself. More so, according to my friend. _I wouldn't be so sure._ Be as it may, I need to agree that something quite extraordinary runs in the Holmes lineage.

_The last one..._

Comparing me to someone else. Someone who was once in similar circumstances or station.

I reassemble my provisional service gun in simple practical moves. I just pulled it apart to make sure it was fully functional, not a speck of dust on it to kink its work. I'll need it later. Under Mycroft's close scrutiny I push the Browning L9A1, my weapon of choice, to the belt strap on my black clothes, snug but comfortable, over which a kevlar military vest stands out. Mycroft was the one providing me the safety gear, as I'm joining a secretive mission with a few of his agent. We're about to go storming in on a hostage situation. "I need someone I can trust, John, who happens to be a doctor with the proven ability to keep a cool head under fire." Given that I've been itching for some action to distract me from my ever so boring work at the Surgery, I accepted a bit too fast. And Sherlock didn't complain about giving me the time off from my assistance on his work either. In fact, Sherlock's been eerily quiet and sulky, almost detached. I'd worry more, but even if my friend is upset I'm actually working for his older brother – a one time only occurrence and just because lives are at stake – it'll be over in no time.

I'm going after the experts to assess the health and mobility of the hostages. A translator will come along to help me communicate in this eastern European dialect I know next to nothing about. I'll liaise with the rescue team to get them, come out with them, collect the expensive bottle of wine or something equally silly Mycroft will get for my trouble, and take the Holmes private jet ride home. _Only then I'll tell Sherlock off for sulking._

_I rather have a petulant I-don't-need-you Sherlock waiting at Baker Street than a worried-sick Sherlock._ His childish understanding of his own emotions working to my advantage this time.

'Ready, John?'

'Ready as I'll ever be', I assure after looking at my new team and nodding sharply. _The war is my second nature._ Mycroft is looking intensely at me, studying me with an open candidness that is very uncharacteristic. It reminds me of Sherlock in an instant, and it just saddens me to recall that the younger Holmes is not picking up his phone. _Sulking silently is uncommon for Sherlock; he tends to do his best tantrums boisterously._

'Any messages for my brother?' Mycroft asks me, as if picking up on my thoughts. Which he probably did. Or he has just remembered this is a dangerous mission and wants to hear my famous last words.

'Yeah', I tell Mycroft, adjusting my helmet's chin strap, 'tell Sherlock the bathtub is off-limits for his science experiments. I'll need a nice soak to get the dust and grime off me by the time I'm done.'

Mycroft's lips twitch but he doesn't give in to a knowing smirk. 'Indeed.'

I highly doubt he'll actually do it, but I resume my place in the team's structure all the same, as we are departing to storm the hostage's location.

_**.**_

I bring back to memory Mycroft's mysterious words only several hours later, as the private jet is touching down on a hangar outside London.

_The last one._

_The last blogger? He last sidekick? The last "John"._

Was there someone before me? Always I have seen Sherlock so independent that I find odd this notion that there could have been someone around before. Helping him, as well. Let's be honest, Sherlock is not one prone to kind helpful gestures like clean the flat, cook dinner or get the groceries. It's far more likely that anyone putting up with him had to do all that for the both of them.

_Whomever it was, they were very lucky to have him around._

_I wonder what on earth could have made them leave._

_**.**_

Arriving at Baker Street two hours later, I smile warmly at the curled up imitation of a yarn ball on the sofa. Sherlock is still wrapped up in his silk dressing gown and his skinny legs are barely sticking out, clad in pyjama bottoms, so it's highly unlikely he's left the flat all day. Not that he wouldn't dare to go out in homely attire – just give him a good case and he's off – but usually he's too vain for that.

'Hey, Sherlock, I'm back!' I state cheerfully, trying to counterpoint his sour mood. The detective ignores me.

_Tea. I'll need tea for this._

221B's kitchen is unrecognisable under a compact wall of cardboard boxes. I smirk as I move onto the kettle at the side, to get the tea going. Long day at the grind, it's nice to come back to Baker Street, so homely. As I wait for the kettle to boil, I take a sneak peek inside a half-lidded box, wondering what my friend's next case can be. _Carefully._ Could be giant spiders, poisonous darts or unstable fireworks for all I know. Instead, on the glimpse I get from the inside I recognise an alarm clock just like the one I have upstairs. Not an object I'm particularly fond of, that one. And a laptop too, oddly familiar. Some notebooks tied up by a string knotted by a left-handed person (learnt that from Sherlock), and a pair of army dog tags on a chain. "Captain J H Watson".No mistakes possible. _In this box, I find my worldly possessions._

Without needing to open the other ones I know instinctively what they carry. These are my life possessions, the property that I keep on my bedroom above 221B.

_This is me being evicted from Baker Street._

'Sherlock?' I call out loud, hardly hiding the panic and nausea that overwhelm me from showing on my shaky voice. _What the—?_

The consulting detective gets up from the sofa, indifferent and aloof. 'Took the liberty of boxing your things, John.'

_Then it's true._

'Why?' I ask numbly.

'Need your room for a new flatmate.'

'What!' _Tell__ me this isn't happening._

'I need to bring someone in to share the rent, John.'

'You can afford it all on your own! To be fair, I've always suspected you could afford the whole of it from the start', I tell him, blinking hard.

He shrugs. 'Your things have been boxed up carefully, I assure you.'

_Nice to know; __not that I__ care._

'Are you evicting me?' I ask, point-blank. Mrs Hudson won't like this, but how can I force my hand to stay is Sherlock doesn't want me around?

'You can do what you like. I've just took possession of your room.'

'Is it to use as a science laboratory? A music room? A Science of Deduction museum?'

'No', he answers to all of them. Sherlock finally faces me, clear blue eyes holding no emotion whatsoever. I have a hard time suppressing a shiver in result. 'I told you, I'm having a new flatmate in.'

_Oh._ Wow! The nerve. _No__!_

'Sherlock, I'm not leaving!' I yell in my most authoritative voice.

He doesn't seem to listen. He hums absentmindedly in response.

_Why is he doing this to me?_ is it because I left him behind to go on a mission for his hated older brother? Sherlock must know I couldn't take him with me...

...And that I'd have, anyway, had he shown me any interest.

'Sherlock, I...'

Before I can figure out what I'm about to say in coherent words, there are light treading footsteps coming up the stairs. I glance at the door, then at Sherlock, and realise this visitor is the person he's been waiting for.

In pyjamas. Well, I suppose if it is a client in need of protection that is taking my room, Sherlock's attire will cause some distrust. I've told the detective time and time again his suits are a better and more conventional look for a modern detective.

If it's a victim in need of protection, why did all of my things get extracted from the bedroom?

Sherlock grabs my Union Jack pillow from my armchair and carrying it he comes to the kitchen door instead of the living room's entrance. He pushes the pillow straight at my chest – sagging the breath out of me – and suggests offhandedly: 'I'll have my tea extra sweet and so will my guest, John.'

I stay behind, bewildered as I watch the scene unfold, grabbing onto the decorative pillow as a lost child.

A tall lean man, of careful appearance and cultured, emerges from the stairs, spotting Sherlock halfway into the landing already. immediately his expression broadens into a big smile that spreads on his face (but won't quite make it to his eyes). His gaze is guarded and hard to read. Colder, steelier, than I'd like for someone smiling that way at my socially innocent friend.

_I distrust him instinctively at first glance._

Sherlock actually holds out a hand to the newcomer and – not enough – he takes another hand to his other arm and squeezes lightly, affectionately.

My jaw could have dropped. Not even sure it hasn't. This is the most un-Sherlock-like behaviour I've ever watched. Usually the ascetic genius that dislikes meaningless social contact, he's now welcoming his friend from the past – this, so far, nameless ghost – as a close brother.

I smile, but my smile turns bitter on the inside. For all I tried to be a good friend to Sherlock, he never reacted in this warm way to me. Then again, I was never equally good-looking, educated, probably genius material like this. I guess there's a difference to spot.

Deep down I'm glad Sherlock is capable of this honest openness, free in giving, even if not with me. it must make Sherlock happy, and Sherlock deserves to be happy.

I just hope his trust is rewarded.

_I know I need to stick around to see if this ghost is trustworthy._

'Sherlock Holmes, you look the same!' he admires, with an infectious smile and Sherlock falls for the praise with innocent vainness. 'Like an artistic flurry of smugness and mystery', he adds to my friend. Is that some sort of weird flirting? The praising is being overdone, mate. _Back off, now._ He then turns to me and I check myself to scold my features, perhaps a second too late. 'And this? Who is this?' he asks with his eyes on me. inexpressive, guarded, calculating.

'My former flatmate', Sherlock admits.

'_Current_ flatmate', I correct, sternly.

'Current', Sherlock seconds me without an argument.

'Oh', the newcomer hesitates, 'thought you said you had a room for me.'

'I do', Sherlock appeases at once, a bit too submissive.

'Yeah', I agree, still glancing sideways at my unrecognisable friend. 'I'm taking the armchair, the red one. Till I find new lodgings. It's, hm, better for my bummed leg', I make it up on the spot and immediately realise _it's stupid._ Now I need to insist. 'I'm a doctor.' _I'm drowning here._ 'Obscure medical practise, I'm afraid. Sleeping sitting down relieves the pressure on some of the muscles in my leg. When it's throbbing it's the only way to make it stop.' _With a bit of luck he just might believe this load of rubbish._ 'Old war souvenir', I classify, with a tight smile. _Usually people stop prying when they learn I'm a war veteran._

'That's very innovative', the man smiles at me. 'Victor Trevor, by the way. I'm one of Sherlock's oldest pals', he introduces himself with outgoing ease.

_The last one_, Mycroft's words echo in my mind.

'John Watson', I answer back as I take his confident handshake. 'Nice to meet you.'

'I'll be seeing more of you, John, I'm sure. But now Sherlock is showing me to my room. It better be grander than his or we'll be swapping!' he jokes lightly in a covert threat.

Sherlock's gaze has yet to leave Victor's expression as my friend looks young, vulnerable and mesmerised. What could hold so much power over my genius friend?

'John', Sherlock snaps me out of my own analysis, without even looking at me. 'Victor's bags are downstairs, do bring them up before Mrs Hudson tries to.'

I wouldn't, I really wouldn't, but a chance that the old landlady might try to tackle heavy bags makes me haste to get the hateful man's bags.

_It's been upgraded to a lasting impression; I dislike Victor Trevor._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	169. Chapter 169

_A/N: A lot has been written on the infamous character Victor Trevor. I'll be honest, I was going for a jealous John. When pushed to the extreme he'll always believe in Sherlock Holmes. Taking up Victor for the challenge was a suitable choice. Like many, I won't sell the nicest Victor, because – let's be honest – Victor is pre-John and there has to be a reason why Sherlock was a lonely closed-off person when he met John._

_**Part**__** two**__ of "a few". -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

With Sherlock and Victor's voice actually carrying over from upstairs to my uncomfortable sentinel post at the armchair, I sit idly by as they have fun, without vacating my space or protest. At my side I have stacked all my cardboard boxes in a possessiveness I couldn't really explain – why would Victor want anything to do with my alarm clock or the odd pair of socks?

No, the threat Victor poses is another; or perhaps I don't have an emotional attachment to most of my stuff. A faithful gun, a warm jumper and some tea bags, and I'll make myself a headquarter anywhere.

_Home_, however, I've only found it here, by Sherlock's side.

Victor's uncalled for presence is grating at my patience, but overall I'm not necessarily upset. No, I wouldn't say so. Mostly, I'm baffled at the events unfolding.

_I wouldn't have imagined this in a million years._

Another well-enjoyed fit of laughter from upstairs – it's Victor's laugh, high pitched and annoying, not Sherlock's deep mischievous type. _Okay, so maybe I'm getting a bit jealous now._ It's hard to be left out, but I'm putting on a brave face and accepting it as it comes.

Well, I must confess I wouldn't quite look that way to someone seeing me sitting here. I've seem to have lost all will for a hot soak at the tub, or even to get rid of the black garments that are so unusual on me (the helmet and bullet-proof vest I handed back to Anthea; but she didn't ask for the gun and I purposely forgot to hand it in).

Another uproar fills the stairwell's open space and this time I recognise one of Sherlock's rare giggles.

I'm not taking my gun out of my belt, no matter how uncomfortable. If I took it out it'd take too much self-restraint not to go up there and chase Victor out of 221B.

The sleek haired, overly pale, manicured new guest is giving the formerly sulky and sociopathic detective a good time.

It's so much like Sherlock to get attracted to shiny things. Big impossible cases, mastermind criminals planning to rule the world from the underground and now a greasy fan from the past.

_They may as well be laughing about Victor's sleek hair. It's probably a wig anyway._

It's difficult to remember the last time Sherlock and I had this much fun together. A jealous part of me wonders if Victor was Sherlock's last best friend. If he's come to reclaim his former place.

Another giggle – they're multiplying – and I start wondering of Victor brought in a bottle of alcohol, or worst. _That_ makes me very uneasy.

Victor's responding giggle makes me wonder if they are laughing at me.

_**.**_

221B quieted down at around two in the morning. Sherlock finally came downstairs, bypassing me by using the kitchen door and setting a beeline for his room. I tried calling out to my friend and saying Good night, but he acted like he didn't hear, _or if I wasn't even there._

I swallow away the constriction at my throat. I feel a bit hurt. I know it's childish because I'm stronger than letting myself feel hurt for being treated as invisible. That's Sherlock being wrong, right there - he does that sometimes. I can be altruistic and let it pass. Some time later I'll talk to him about it, explain it to him calmly. He'll listen, he always does.

Underneath all the layers of abrasiveness this situation has brought home, my instincts are flared; and that I cannot ignore.

_I'm disliking Victor more and more._ I didn't always get a verbal answer from Sherlock, but my friend has never completely ignored me like this before. Usually there was a grunt, no matter how derisive. Sherlock has never completely ignored me, leaving me this isolated. It's not about not getting attention, I can handle disinterest just fine.

It's as if Victor's presence is changing Sherlock into someone he's not, little by little. And it's painful to watch without being able to intervene.

This new Sherlock seems determined to impress a ghost from the past and I'm quite sure _it's not good_.

No matter how much Sherlock tries to push me away, I'm here to stay. _It's what real friends do._

_**.**_

Woke up this morning to a warm afghan blanket spread over me, keeping me warm. I found it odd, not being able to recall getting it. I must have been both really cold and sleepy.

The blanket has, nevertheless, made my armchair a bit more comfortable for a sleepover. I suppose I could have taken the long sofa but I'm stubborn enough to stick to my story. I won't let Victor have the satisfaction of talking down my supposed knowledge of "obscure medical practises".

That I've been thrown out of my room still feels outlandish in the first hours of the day as it did yesterday evening.

I got up to make us all some fresh coffee, and while it's percolating I go treat myself to a well deserved hot shower and put some colour on my day clothes. I'm choosing to face this day with optimism and give this weird business a fresh start.

Under the hot water spray I finally come to the realization that I never picked up the blanket. Someone else came along to make sure I had a tiny bit more comfort (I'm a soldier, I can deal with much worse). Someone has approached me despite my light sleep – and my angry soldier reflexes when I'm startled awake – in feline surreptitious moves that have slid under my radar. Perhaps because subconsciously I trusted those familiar footsteps and relaxed through them. Only one person can be this surreptitious, this trustworthy, this caring under a cool exterior. _Sherlock._

All of a sudden I know, instinctively, Sherlock's playing a game. A double bluff, of you will.

_I just can't make out why._

I'll hang on to that knowledge for now.

_**.**_

'Sherlock, what's _he_ doing here?'

DI Lestrade checks out Victor Trevor with a suspicious frown, before carefully asking his question to the detective joining in at the newest crime scene.

'John wanted to tag along.'

'Yeah, sure... No, wait, I didn't mean John! I meant _him_! That guy. Who is he and why does he look familiar?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'How should I know? Maybe you two crossed paths at Piccadilly circus, the theatre or the supermarket...' he says, distractedly.

Victor steps in at once with his oily smile. 'I don't do supermarkets, so let's scratch that one, Sherlock. I'm more of a fine dine man myself. How about you, DI Lestrade?'

Greg doesn't look particularly impressed either as he firms, full of common sense: 'Supermarkets, mostly. I've got a family.'

'How inconvenient', Sherlock ponders, with no social skills. More than that, I see Greg offended by Sherlock's comment, and ready to give the genius a cutting answer. I step in at once, trying my best that Sherlock doesn't alienate himself from all his friends.

'Greg, can you tell us about the crime scene?'

DI Lestrade extends his cold stiff demeanour to me. 'In my own time, John!' he snaps to let off some steam. 'As the officer in charge, I need to know who the posh guy is. Well, I don't mean Sherlock, I mean the other one.'

I sigh. Greg's got a (sarcastic) point. Both the genius and his new mate are wearing far too expensive suits for the dirt and grime of a crime scene. They are also setting themselves quite apart from the rest of the investigators and looking like a nonsense at the sleazy back alley where the dead body has been found.

Sherlock defends: 'Victor's my new assistant.'

'I thought that was John.'

Sherlock hesitates for a second, then shrugs. Not even once has he liked me straight in the eye. I feel used and superfluous at the same time, discarded like an old bag.

_Well, I suppose I'll be needing a new job after this._ Maybe Mycroft wants to employ me on a freelance basis.

Greg glances at me before returning his gaze onto Sherlock with an even colder demeanor, breaching onto angry by default.

'See if he doesn't get himself in trouble or contaminates the crime scene, Sherlock. Meanwhile, John, can you give a look at the body before it's taken to the morgue?'

I'm snapped back to the moment by Greg's timely call and I truly appreciate his loyal attempt to keep me needed, to ensure my participation.

'Oh, yes, the body', I mutter, refocusing.

Behind my back I hear a whispered snigger from Victor to Sherlock, in which the consulting detective willingly participates, holding in a giggle of his own.

_I'm sure that was about me._

I need to turn my personal torment and my hurt onto rightful anger-fuelled work. Honest, if I don't, I'll snap and punch Victor on his cosmetic surgery perfect nose. And if he didn't have surgery before, I can make sure he needs it...

Shaking my head slightly I'm bemused at how easily I'm drawn into a fight. Must be the soldier in me, aching to come to head. This is not a school's playground, I won't let myself be goaded into saying or doing something nasty that will push Sherlock away even further.

A few seconds over the two or three day old, decomposing body and I can assure my audience:

'There are clear signs of asphyxia, but the murderer was ineffective. Not enough pressure at the trachea at first. The bruising pattern shows that more than one attempt was made. Finally the airflow was cut for long enough to cause the victim to pass out and stop struggling. The murderer then took a careful hold of the victim's head – notice the red marks on either temple – and snapped his neck. I think you'll find that to be the true cause of his death, Greg.'

'Messy', the experienced DI comments.

I tilt my head to the side and ponder: 'Excessive, too'.

'What do you mean?'

I shrug. 'Easier ways to kill a man, that's all. Looks very personal, the method. If the strangulation had proceeded, there would be no need for the neck vertebrae assault. Be sure to swab carefully around the victim for DNA traces. This was essentially a physical struggle. Locard's principle of exchange states that–'

Victor interrupts me, acidic: 'The killer must have passed on his DNA to the victim and vice versa. Yes, John, you can stop showing off now. Sherlock's the real detective, not you.'

I get up from where I was kneeling at once. Before I can move, Greg has stopped me with a heavy hand laid on my arm.

'Let it go', he whispers between us.

_Easier said than done._

But I really try, because this is Greg's crime scene and he doesn't need the conflict.

For the first time, I catch Sherlock looking at me in a glimpse. He immediately turns his head away and looks haughtily into the distance, but I could still sense one single instant of pure misery and devastation in his expression. _I find it odd and misplaced._ He's the one who created this mess. Why he won't stop it now is beyond me. As Victor such a big influence on him? _Can't make sense of this._

_I really detest Victor Trevor._

'Sherlock?' Greg calls out loud for our friend's deductions, like usual.

He rolls his eyes and, annoyed, concedes: 'Fine. If you need me to do the Yard's work while you act like you're on holiday at work hours... The victim was murdered by a man of insufficient physical strength and surprisingly ease around death. Your killer must have lost his muscle power due to trauma or chronic illness and, being narcissistic, he was unable to foresee he wouldn't be able to hold the victims as they struggled.'

'What? Victims? There's more than one?' DI Lestrade makes the maths at once, stunned.

'Certainly. Victor chose his first crime scene well', he smirks happily. 'This is a perfected murder routine that the Yard has not yet flagged as belonging to a serial murderer.

'It's not perfect, it's messy!' Greg protests.

'No. The second method was the intended one all along, the climax-type completion of the murderer's instincts. Somewhere along his favouritisms there is dominance, and when he won't have submission from a struggling victim on a life or death fight, he makes them fall unconscious. In that state he is all powerful. That's a goal, not a consequence of chance.'

'Jeez...' Greg is rightfully disturbed.

'I will not trouble you with further deductions. As John pointed out, you'll only need the forensic report to do a good job at the desk, catching the criminal. I suspect you'll find the man you're looking for on the database of DNA profiles.

_Amazing_.

Despite the out of tone character of his new friendship, Sherlock is still in great form. 'That was amazing, Sherlock.'

'Indeed', he comments with a brief smile. 'Lestrade, call me when you have a better case, will you? I need to show the ropes to Victor...'

With a coat whoosh he turns away and walks off with Victor loyally at his side.

Stunned, I just watch them go, before I start as well. _A faithful shadow._

Greg holds me back. 'John... are you okay?' he asks, truly concerned. _I think he's read my sadness._

'Yeah, fine', I assure him in my strongest stance.

'Do you know where that guy came from?'

'Sherlock's past' is all I can say, I realise.

'I'm sure I've seen him before, not sure where... Look, John, I wouldn't take it pers–'

I cut this short, stating: 'It's okay, Greg. I'll keep an eye on Sherlock.'

Greg frowns, looking more worried than relieved.

'If you're sure.'

I nod calmly. 'I am. Sherlock's my friend, and he doesn't stop being my friend just because some pompous idiot has caught his eye.'

The DI nods slowly, respectfully. He looks touched, somehow.

'What Sherlock is doing is wrong, John. You saved his life on more occasions than I can recall, and Sherlock will see that in the end. He'll forget his silly infatuation with Vain Victor.'

_Victorious Victor is more like it, so far._

'Yeah. Maybe. Hope so.' I glance ahead but the new duo is already out of sight. 'I guess they've gone to get Chinese, now they solved a case together.'

'What was that, John?' he picks up on my mumbling.

'Oh, nothing. Sort of a tradition for Sherlock. Not that Victor eats much, if I can guess. If they were that close friends I wouldn't be too surprised if Victor was the one who got Sherlock used to not eating properly, the skinny idiot.'

Greg just follows my lost gaze with his. 'Yeah, there's something about that guy I don't trust.'

'Tell me about it', I sigh.

'We need to protect Sherlock from Victor.'

'I know.'

'No matter how much he'll dislike our meddling.'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	170. Chapter 170

_A/N: __**Part three**__ of "a few". Still not British (that means English is not my first language), a writer (that one is what it says on the tin) or a detective (not even in my own stories). Ta. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

I distrust Victor Trevor instinctively. I know Greg might think deep down that I'm jealous. Mycroft has sided with me, as per his enigmatic forewarning ("you're very different from the last one"), for his own mysterious reasons. Mrs Hudson is already fretting over me; in all of this, the sweet landlady was the only other person who saw closely Sherlock changing after Victor came back into his life.

I'd gladly have appreciated the chance to find out more about my secretive friend's past through one of his closest past mates. And the reason they separated still demands to be addressed, if not by me, then by the two of them. They carefully circle up conversations about a time they spent sharing quarters at University, but I've managed to gather that they parted ways while still enrolled. Sherlock went through a string of flatmates he drove to insanity with great creativity and ease, while Victor moved over to another dorm altogether.

The more I wanted to know about what happened, the less I had the chance. Victor shunt me from Baker Street. Slowly at first, but more assuredly as the day went by, after his arrival. Not boldly or even outspokenly, no. In the small things, really. I'd go for tea and he had just thrown away all of my tea bags. Out of date, he argued. I know they weren't, but I can't prove it. I put on the telly, he turned it off blaming a headache. I even found him to have been too close to my precious wall of cardboard boxes by my armchair. One of the box lids was swung open and Sherlock was – for once – actually looking less than contained while staring at the forced open box. He looked angry, dangerous, vindictive. But as soon as he sensed me nearby his demeanour changed from head to toe and became rehearsed, light, naïve.

_It made me second guess myself._ Had Sherlock not smiled so broadly to me, I'd have presumed he was death-staring my stuff because he wants me out. But I know Sherlock better than that. He was staring at the boxes because he alone could see the invisible hand that had tainted them by messing about.

What was Victor after in my box of reading books, I don't know. Perhaps he just didn't get the chance to go through other, more enlightening, boxes.

To the rest of the world to see the situation is quite clear. Victor's importance has increased steadily at Baker Street, to a point where he's becoming some sort of replacement of me. The fun loving flatmate that shares the daily routines and the rent. As to who's doing the chores and getting the groceries in, I guess they'll become totally dependant on Mrs Hudson.

For all the world to see, Victor is the new best mate and the consulting detective is over the moon.

I'm afraid being the third wheel was never my forte.

_I stay because I'm worried about Sherlock._

_I'll always stay, as long as he needs me._ I can endure the pitiful looks at the crime scenes, when I show up, tagging along Sherlock Holmes and Victor Trevor, the new consulting crime fighting duo.

My best friend has stopped inviting me along. _He has yet to refuse my participation so to push me away entirely._

_**.**_

'Eating slows me down, Victor', Sherlock says absent-mindedly as they return to the flat, I'm already making tea in the kitchen. 'John can have my share, he likes to eat.'

Distractedly Sherlock puts down a paper bag with Chinese take away on the kitchen counter by my side. Before I can say a word, though, he's already slipping away, grabbing the tea mug I had just made for myself. _Some things never change. _I bite back a knowledgeable smile and start on another.

'Victor, tea?' I call out, for politeness sake alone.

'Don't mind if I do, old chump!' he answers back in a false good mood. Just a bit too cheerful that both me and the tea bags are still present at the flat.

Whatever went on at the Chinese take away joint, those two did not get along well.

_Maybe Victor asked for help carrying that big head of his and Sherlock had to refuse because it's so much more than anyone can take..._

'If you reconsider my offer, Sherlock', Victor still calls out to the corridor leading to our friend's bedroom, 'I'll be upstairs, just call out', he finishes mysteriously.

'No need', Sherlock actually retraces a few steps to say clearly, not minding me as an audience.

'I keep forgetting you're doing alright now. Quite unlike the man I used to know, in fact.'

'I've... evolved.'

'A leopard doesn't change its spots, Sherlock, no matter how hard it tries', he says, like a sentence, before he walks off.

Sherlock retires to his room almost immediately and I'm left with an excess of tea in an otherwise empty kitchen.

_**.**_

'Mycroft, who is he?' I ask to the receiver at a local payphone booth. One of those red classic ones the tourists so much love in London.

"I'm afraid my brother doesn't tell me about his acquaintances, John", big brother speaks leisurely, in a fake, honeyed voice.

'That's crap, and you know it. When I first moved to Baker Street, you kidnapped me, you interrogated me, and you tried to bribe me into giving you information. All of that even before I packed my bags. No one flies under your radar, Mycroft, not when it comes to your baby brother. Because no matter what you like to say, you feel he's your responsibility. That's _caring_, by the way, no matter how much you try to deny it.'

Mycroft Holmes chokes a petulant noise that is quite uncharacteristic for the Ice man, making me wonder if I didn't just kill all my chances of cooperation.

"I'm not wishing to deceive you, John. I have no file or special information on Victor Trevor... I will, however, gather some', he concedes at last, in a weary tone of voice.

'Fine, you do that.' I bang the phone receiver against the hook with uncalled for violence.

_**.**_

The next morning comes much in the same fashion as the previous days, as Victor gets accustomed to sharing Baker Street with Sherlock and a reluctant-to-leave ex-flatmate.

Sherlock himself is the only one who seems impervious to the tense atmosphere at 221B – and how wrong it is that I'd feel like a stranger walking on eggshells at the familiar dwellings of my home. Spiralling egocentrically on his own feelings and the case at hand, there's almost a tangible, unmistakable excitement emanating from Sherlock, as he fiddles around with the kitchen experiments, checking his phone every ten seconds for some incoming contact. Finally, he settles at the table, in front of his microscope, mindlessly changing magnifying lenses power over the same slide; over and over again. I can sense the low humming coming off of him in his breathing, like a low constant fast beat, building up expectation to something to come.

It'd figure the musician detective would himself be a symphony of small hints for those who can read him. And today, Sherlock's music is one of growing suspense.

Even Victor has somewhat fallen off his radar this morning. Sherlock keeps him in plain sight at all times, but he doesn't directly engage in eye contact with him either.

I hand out a soothing mug of tea to Sherlock, silently, hoping he takes it. Much to my surprise, I actually don't startle or annoy him. He even gives me the briefest of warm smiles for my trouble, before a cold mask once again closes off his expression.

_Well, I didn't expect that._

Glancing over at Victor – I know I need to do the polite thing and take him a nice, warm, _not_ _poisoned_, cuppa as well. _I'm British after all._

Squaring my shoulders as if going into battle (while in itself I know firsthand it's not as unpleasant) I start walking over to Victor.

I'm interrupted by Sherlock's phone chime. Suddenly Sherlock is getting up; alive, energetic, borderline maniac. He smirks as he opens the text on his phone and – just like that – all his triumph crumbles. I can see it clearly on his face. Whatever the contents of that text, they throw away an intense deductive exercise of his, they put to shame some intricate scheme he put all his hopes on. He's utterly shocked, almost bewildered, as he sits back down on the kitchen chair, in deep thought.

'Sherlock, is everything alright?' I dare to ask, even if I'm so sure he'll evade answering me. I need to let him know, at least, of my care and support, that hopefully my nosy question transports.

He looks up at me blankly (is there some sadness in there?); then to Victor, who is in turn attentively studying him. They lock gazes for a long stretch, just staring at each other with no definite expression, in a weird I-have-a-secret contest.

Sherlock breaks away first. He's been beaten, I guess.

Once again I instinctively feel uneasy with the peer pressure dynamics between these two. _It's unhealthy._

_I worry._

Sherlock is immune to my concern this time, his mind filled with secret reasoning, working full speed if I can read it in his face.

Desperate measures take me close to my secretive friend and I decide to breach his privacy. I sneak closer to his abandoned phone on the table and read the writings upside down.

From: Lestrade

No DNA picked up on forensics.

No other leads.

Care to help?

Greg

He's just signed "Greg" to mess with Sherlock and his constant confusion over Greg's given name.

Or he's just reinforcing his correct name in an educational effort, I'd wager.

So, no leads on the strangulation - neck breaking case. That's really odd. Didn't seem like the killer was so organised. It implies premeditation, method and a higher level of threat.

Sherlock continues lost in his thoughts, really taking this case to heart. Usually this would be a Four at the most.

_Everyone and everything about this weekend has been off, adding to a feeling of surreal around me._

_**.**_

No matter what Sherlock likes to say about DI Lestrade, our good friend is a very attentive friend. As Sherlock drifted away from me, in his giddy happiness bubble with Victor, I felt that I had lost my footing in many ways. It's hard to get back to a flat that feels estranged all of a sudden. Home for a long time, all I get now is this alien feeling of being surplus.

I held on tight to the past, to the memories, to my warm spot on a broken springs armchair that always felt just perfect for me. My things piled up in cardboard boxes on the side, I'm living from an excuse of a travelling bag, where I keep handy a few clean clothes, toiletries, laptop and gun.

I also feel like I'm losing the work Sherlock and I shared, and on this first night my leg has started hurting again – in fairness, I've hit my leg manoeuvring around the boxes and that's a perfectly plausible cause – I'm frightened as I haven't felt in a very long time.

Scared this feels like going back in time, this is losing Home and Hope, this is the end of an era that brought Meaning to my life.

With Sherlock reclusive in his room and Victor lurking about like a bad omen, I outsourced for company by calling Greg.

He picked up the call on the first ring and immediately gave me all his attention. A pint at the pub, or two. Just what he needed, he's told me, like a kind-hearted liar.

Greg Lestrade was there, at the pub, in under ten minutes. A new record even for him. With a friendly and understanding attitude, he was a friend that wouldn't let go. _The type I thought Sherlock was._

'Figured out where you met Victor Trevor before, Greg?'

The DI holds his ale mid-air, frowning in the crowded pub. 'Not really... I'm worried, though. Our Sherlock is not acting like himself when that guy is around.'

I take my pint in my hand, while distractedly running a finger through the engraved relief on the glass, bearing the pub's name. 'That's definitely not very like Sherlock, no... I mean, Sherlock's the best at pulling a deception, especially with witnesses. He can cry on me. He can play drunk perfectly. And even his sociopathic streak is very much a cover-up to keep himself protected...'

Greg is pondering his own golden ale when he confesses: 'Not sure about his coldness being an act. I'd be more inclined to believe your presence has influenced Sherlock, changed him.'

'Nonsense, I did nothing... Greg, I don't have the ability to do a major life change on a genius, that's crazy. I'm just an old army doctor who got sent back and is thankful. I think it's fair to say he's changed my life in more ways than obvious – and so much more – I owe Sherlock a lifelong debt of gratitude.

Greg nods in agreement but adds wittily: 'Don't get ahead of yourself there, John. Sherlock is no innocent hero. He had his life saved by you on a daily basis.'

'We hardly had those many cases.'

'I'm not just talking about the cases, John... And seeing you not fighting more to snap some sense into Sherlock's bloody Holmes is infuriating, really.'

I gulp drily, and it has nothing to do with the pint slowly getting warmer and staler. I allow a grim smile, wondering if I haven't had one too many already. 'It's like a stupid romantic song, innit?' I point out bitterly. 'Something along the lines of "if you love someone, let them go, set them free". It's got to be valid for friendship as well. This is Sherlock's choice and it would be wrong for me to pressure him to maintain a past partnership now he's moving on.'

'But you don't want to leave Baker Street.' The DI tilts his head and gives me an expressive look.

'Well, someone's got to keep the skinny genius safe, right?'

Finally Greg looks back at me as if I'm bloody helpless.

_**.**_

_**TBC **_


	171. Chapter 171

_A/N: __**Part four / penultimate**_ _of "a few"._ _I've been writing ahead on this one, and I'm afraid it gets worst before getting better. Had I known I'm making some people upset, I'd have a happy ending right here. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

221B's living room gets chilly during the night, with several drafts from those old historical windows. Mrs Hudson has been insisting I borrow a duvet and take the sofa tonight. She both took pity on the retired soldier and boldly foresaw how this standstill can last longer than previously thought.

So, as I enter Baker Street, perhaps still a bit tipsy from my time with Greg at the pub (a police officer escorted me home and we laughed all the way over about it, improving my mood), Mrs H accosts me at once, her arms full of fluffy bed covers.

I fumble to relieve her of her load. 'It's alright, Mrs Hudson. You really didn't have to.' I smile broadly at her. 'Some people don't even think I live here anymore!' I add, brilliantly, and it makes me giggle.

Mrs Hudson, however, is less than amused.

'Oh, John, you need a good nap', she puts it politely. 'Off you go, young man!' she urges me up the stairs.

Not sure if pushing me is a wise decision around stairs tonight, I realise. Turning around to face our landlady in a worried frown I realise: 'You dislike Victor.'

Her face softens as she takes in my blunt honesty.

'Yes, I do dislike him', she agrees with a bothered shake of her head. 'I don't think he's right for Sherlock. I wish two could just make up and–'

'We're not in a relationship', I cut her short, tense, almost hysterical. _How many times?_

'Not like that, I know, I heard that before. Be it as it may, John, you and Sherlock belong together. Not him and the likes of Victor.'

_Mrs Hudson, our number one fan._

I shake my head tiredly as I start mounting the stairs with the big clumsy duvet. Only then does she add:

'I don't like the way Sherlock acts around him either.'

I stop, holding on to the balustrade, and turn to look over my shoulder. She's looking sadly at me. 'And mostly', she insists, 'I don't like the way Victor acts around Sherlock.'

'What do you mean?' I drill the question immediately, sobering up quickly.

She won't talk about it, shaking her head worriedly with pursed lips. She turns back to her flat as she claims: 'I'm just saying, make sure you're keeping an eye out on Sherlock. He needs your hovering, John, do you know? And I'm sure he even appreciates it deep inside.'

'_Very_ deep inside', I pretend to agree.

'Sherlock wouldn't want it any other way. He needs his things kept in his own way, his wall of protection, and he makes it almost impossible for any person to dust the clutter... He constantly needs his things, in his order around him, you know that, John. It settles him. That flat has hardly changed in all these years, and it won't either. You, John, are as much part of it as the microscope at the kitchen table and the skull in the fireplace. He needs you around. You've become a part of his list of things he needs in this world.'

I heard this property theory before so I just answer to the core message: 'I'm not sure that's still true, Mrs H.'

'Don't be stubborn now, John', she asks of me. 'Just listen to me and make sure you are around. Sherlock will need you, sooner or later, and he won't know how to ask for your help. You need to be there.'

With one last commiseration smile she bids me Good night and we part ways.

Never that first flight of stairs into 221B seemed so long and arduous before.

_**.**_

I come to 221B's living room at late hours of the night, thinking I'd be alone in the cold space. Instead I find a familiar shape by the window, looking out. Sherlock hardly acknowledges my presence.

'Where's Victor?' I snap the question as an opening bid for a conversation.

'Out', he answers, monosyllabic.

'Oh', I grunt. _He could stay out._ I dump the duvet carelessly over the long sofa, not minding Sherlock at all. He does that. Stand still in a world of his own. I usually just navigate around him to make the coffee, use my armchair or to put down the grocery bags. Usually it's not in a space being used as my bedroom, sure, but I'm too tired to care. I spread open the duvet and collect pillows on one side of the sofa.

'Hunting', Sherlock says, belatedly.

I blink. _What?_ Victor, he means? Sherlock shrugs, reading my confusion with the same ease he had in the old days. 'He borrowed my deerstalker', he clarifies.

_Oh._ I smile naturally. Sherlock almost allows himself a smirk, but instead turns again to the window, where from his higher ground standpoint he invigilates the city below.

_Whatever Sherlock anticipates happening, it's big._

'You're restless, Sherlock', I comment despite myself, stealing a glance at my friend still looking out on the street below. He keeps himself upright in a picture of immobility but I can read otherwise in the way his expressive violinist fingers twitch nervously every once in a while. One such thing once earned me a diagnosis that Sherlock took care to alter generously. I can't ignore a similar display on the man I've for so long (feels like so little) been proud to call my closest friend, the one person who knows me best.

Sherlock turns to me as my words hit a chord in him. Fiery eyes lock their gaze on mine, finding some comfort in the deep blue of my own, juxtaposing fire and water.

'There's a crime about to happen out there', he tells me.

Victor's absence is bringing out hues of the Sherlock I've grown accustomed for so long, I notice. He's addressing me in his laconic sentences, allowing his expression to fill in the blanks of the real message between us.

_But I don't get it._ 'Yes. It's London. It's always like that.'

Sherlock looks away briskly, frustrated I can't grasp what he won't share. And just like that I wonder if the frail thread of communication we were sharing got broken.

'I'm powerless!' he confesses, angrily. Then he hisses: 'I can't prevent it, John!'

_I don't follow._ But whatever the invisible wars he battles, I want him to know the essential:

'Sherlock, it's not your fault. You've only just started on this case. You don't have enough clues. The DNA analysis didn't pick up on–'

He stops me: 'I don't need the DNA analysis!'

I blink. _What?_

'You know who is doing this?' I realise slowly. _He can't stop it, _that's what he means.

Again he faces me in the same silent restlessness.

_How can I ease his mind?_

'Sherlock, are you sure you are doing all you can?' He nods, truthfully. _But that's not enough, never enough._ 'You're not superhuman, Sherlock. Your best is all anyone should ever ask of you. Now you need to go and rest, and maybe tomorrow things are better.'

He frowns at me, without putting his heart into it, like a kid's protest.

'Go', I insist, steady. He actually does.

At least he's listening and speaking to me now, while Victor is absent, I consider, watching him walk tiredly down the corridor.

'Good night, Sherlock', I only mutter under my breath, too shy to say it out loud.

'Good night, John', he says out loud, acknowledging what he knew I'd say, without even turning. His bedroom door shuts after him.

_**.**_

I'm achy and tired by the time I sink into the sofa for a good night's sleep. All around me, 221B feels more familiar than before the talks I had with my friends, but there is still some coldness to the walls that once harboured a soldier returned from the war with no place to call a home. Hardly the drafts fault either, for Sherlock has made a nice bulky fire in the mantle, warming up the place.

_Baker Street without Sherlock has never been a home._

I sigh and roll over, willing sleep to take over an exhausted mind.

As usual, as I focus on my wishes, they crumble to pieces. This time, by the power of my beeping phone.

Reaching out, I recognise a text message in the lit screen:

Left my keys behind.

Need you to come open the door.

Victor

_Does he even know how much I want to ignore this text?_

But I won't let him pull Mrs Hudson out of bed to get the front door. That's just not right at her age, better be me the one to go.

Coming.

John

_Git._

In ten seconds I'm off the warm cocoon of blankets and going downstairs. In fifteen seconds I'm opening the front door.

_It's the sixteenth second that comes as a surprise._

I'm grabbed and forcefully pulled face first to the pavement, where I land with a thud. My reflexes are slowed by the alcohol I had in the pub, but even in this state I'm a fighter and I know how to fight back.

I try to roll over to face the enemy and strike back, but before I can a violent kick is aimed at my right kneecap and I'm horrified at the cracking sound that resounds from it. Pain flares exponentially at once, sagging the breath out of me. It's not just the knee, all my right leg is on fire, from injuries that are there and echoes from the past. I whimper before I can help myself.

The obvious option is to scream out for help, for Sherlock. As I'm about to gather enough of a lungful to call out, two strong hands wrap around my neck and immediately loop tight, constricting my airway.

He's pulling me back in his attack, and I'm practically kneeling on the ground with my upper torso strained back too much by the two hands that hold me up and choke me. My own hands fly up to my neck as I try to hold my breath and not panic about the lack of oxygen, making what precious little I have left last longer. I claw desperately at the strong grip but I'm not able to push those murderous hands off me.

In a flash of clarity I recognise the method from the crime scene we visited with Sherlock. Victor must have been stupid enough to attract the killer to our place.

_I'm a soldier, I don't go down without a good fight._

The world is losing brightness as I see only pitch dark coming over me, alongside nausea and a loud ringing in my ears. Just like that, I'm passing out.

Wrapping my good led around the assailant's, I kick him violently, making him lose his balance over me.

One painful gasp of air and the world seems to start refocusing around the edges. I prepare to swing around and attack my assailant when he spreads his hand on the back of my head, weaving his filthy fingers in my short hair, and taking hold he violently slams me against the pavement.

_I give in to the blessed darkness at last._

_**.**_

_This is as good time as ever for Sherlock to come and save me._ That's the first full thought that my throbbing head harnesses from the swirling madness of panic, anger and confusion. _Sherlock._

I can't quite hold in the bitter laugh that ensues. _That was before, a long time ago, before Sherlock stopped having time for me._

I'll need to rescue myself. _Can I do it, though?_

I blink hard to refocus on where I am. A dirty, familiar sort of back alley. Crammed between rows of houses without side windows, a place to jam your rubbish bins and perhaps the odd petty illegal activity.

Speaking of which... Yeah, there's a cctv camera at the far corner. I wonder if it's working. I wonder if there is any police officer watching it live among others, if anyone can see me here, tied and fallen on the dirty ground.

Some of these cameras are for show. Empty vessels because its presence is enough to dissuade the unsure criminals. Others have a very grainy image, and are only revisited after a crime took place, in the effort to reconstruct the events. These ones, in back alleys, I suspect are not the live feed ones I needed to get help – or just Mycroft's men's attention.

I give up on hope, and stop tapping my foot on the floor in Morse code for SOS. It's taking me nowhere.

My right knee is swollen and a magnet for pain, my head swims at every deeper breath I take, and the restraints around my wrists are sturdy and well-tied. No rest for the wicked, and I roll over nearer to the brick wall at one side of the alley and force myself against it to get a grip on the rough surface as I try getting up on my healthy leg. I take advantage of the rough texture of the brick wall to carefully friction the ropes binding my wrists till they break free.

The serial killer has broken his pattern. Although it's good news for my neck vertebrae, it only makes him more unstable. Either he got interrupted or he's preparing something worse than usual.

_Sherlock better hurry up, with Victor tagging along, complaining about how many times I get to play the victim..._

Forget British politeness, Victor can get the hell out of my room, I'll need a good rest after this and I'm not in the mood for sharing!

The dark alley keeps defying the laws of gravity and motion, but I've gathered my wits as much as humanly possible for now. I look around for an old pipe, umbrella or a long piece of wood that I can use as a cane. Something that I can have to support myself on my way out of this hell.

Might be my lucky night, as a few steps away I find an old discarded shower rail. It bends a bit at every uneasy step I take but I'm glad for the help ut gives me with my balance as I start in short painful steps towards the main street.

It's been deserted so far, and if I happen to see someone I'll call out for desperate help.

A few more steps and I'll have reached the street. I settle my jaw and rattle up all my muscles, it feels like they're on fire. My goal is to reach safety, my goal is to get myself safe.

I'm but a few steps away when a shadow is cast over the yellow light of the street lamps spreading on the pavement.

'Help!' I choke out with all my breath through a very bruised throat. It pushes me into a coughing fit.

The shadow stops, not reacting, and I second guess myself. A bystander would either show up and look or scramble off while dialing 999 on the phone. Standing at the mouth of the stage in anticipation is a different behaviour altogether, and I can't understand.

'Help!' I call again, just in case the person thinks they misheard me.

The shadow moves forward and turns into its negative, standing upright. A black silhouette visible from the ground, a tall thin man in deep stark contrast at the electric lights. I can make out no features, no distinctive trait.

I shiver, with a bad feeling.

This slow theatre play tells me this is my killer, returning.

I glance over my shoulder to the other side of the alley, the darker, dirtier portion. No exit, even if I could run up there and it's doubtful in my state.

There's only one exit, and it's by the sadistic man that wants to kill me. I look straight back at him, to let him know I'm not scared.

One step forward and I recognise him – _maybe I've known all along._ The man responsible for the killings has revisited the crime scenes alongside me and is wearing Sherlock's deerstalker.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_

* * *

_Post-text A/N: On a previous version, not cliffhanger-friendly, I didn't write "Sherlock's" in that last sentence. Let me assure you I'm not doing an evil Sherlock story. There's a lot to set right on the next one. Well, this is... hm... the culmination of the expected. I'm afraid this plot has always been rather simplistic. Saving John and explaining Sherlock will be coming in the next (last) one for this plot line. -csf_


	172. Chapter 172

_A/N: __**Part five / last part**__ of "a few". May be a bit long. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

As I silently calculate my chances of saving my own life (they're not looking as promising as I'd like them to be, but then again I'm partial to my own life), so does Victor Trevor stand immobile at the alley's start, holding a steady gun.

_You took too long, mate. The gun is your plan B, you don't really want to use it. Your methods are more crude. It's about the physical fight and the win._

_I woke up before you had the chance to come finish your job._

_You need to catch up with the lost time, now._

_I wonder where you've been..._

Suddenly a second shadow appears moving over the pavement, glistening with London's drizzle rain. I tense up further, if that's even humanly possible.

_The killing method is that of a one-man's job. Who is this second person?_

As if responding to my internal request, the second man steps into the light.

'Sherlock?' I call out in utter terror.

Seeing Sherlock Holmes standing by the sadist killer's side burst a bubble of deep fears in me. I never believed Sally Donovan's theory that Sherlock would one day drive himself to be a killer out of boredom, but if I had to imagine such a scene, this would be it. _With a slight exception; Sherlock would be commanding the murder, not tagging along._

_What am I thinking? Did my head suffer such trauma? Sherlock is mesmerized by death and crime scenes, but he's not a murderer._

_This image of Victor and Sherlock side by side is the snapshot of how Sherlock would look if he gave in to a very deep dark side._

My lips twitch in a smile I can't repress. This is Sherlock coming to save me, of that I'm sure.

Victor's hand, the one he's using to hold the gun, wavers slightly as he sees the shift in my expression. He's losing control to me and it's unexpected.

This is why Victor left me as an unfinished job, tied up in an alley. He knows me from Mrs Hudson's stories, from my blog, from the little hints I carry on me from my past as an army doctor (and having once been Sherlock's flatmate, some deductive powers must have rubbed off on him). Victor seeks control and dominance over his victims. A simple physical struggle approach hadn't broken a former army soldier with plenty of fire in him. Victor left so he could get extra leverage. A willing to play along Sherlock Holmes. He might even have hacked into this inoffensive cctv camera, like the others in the other crime scenes. "Come join me, Sherlock, on my murderous spree"; that must have been an odd conversation. And Sherlock is known publically to be attracted by anything"murder". Victor really believed he had rounded up Sherlock as his supporter, maybe even admirer.

Finally some of Sherlock's odd behaviour of recent starts making sense. The submission, the quietness, the expressionless mask, even the fact that he's pushed me away.

_To protect me. And because I was the only person who could put an end to his act._

_I know he deeply cares about my opinion of him. I could have stopped all of this, had I known what was going on._

He had to keep up a farce, even for me, afraid I'd make him stop.

_And maybe because he's not a big fan of my acting skills._

Victor finally glances at the man standing by his side, in suspicion. But by now Sherlock Holmes, the born actor, has efficiently scolded his features and looks adequately wild and dangerous.

_It doesn't take a lot of imagination to picture what he's using as his inspiration, as he stands at the side of a killer that had put me in harm's way._

_I don't think Sherlock foresaw that._

_"There's a crime about to happen out there. I'm powerless."_

Sherlock lost control of the game. That's what brought me here.

'Sherlock', I croak in a hoarse voice, 'let's talk about this.'

_Trust me, we'll have a lot to talk about regarding this case._

Victor sniggers at once. 'Is this the partner you got yourself, Sherlock? Negotiation! How pathetic and peasant it is. All the others did the same. "Why are you doing this to me? Do you want money? I have a family." All tried to talk their way out. But they had nothing they could bargain me with.'

The hand l had wrapped around my improvised cane twitches, urging for action, but I'm still on the wrong side of the gun.

Victor's eyes flash with a dangerous light and he leads on:

'Sherlock, John shouldn't be up. Want to be a dear and hold him down for me?'

The consulting detective playing the dark side nods curtly and walks slowly towards me. 'Just drop it, John. It's over', he says out loud. I stand as straight as I can, readying myself for any course of action.

I notice Sherlock comes to stand between me and the enemy's gun, walking straight into the line of fire. Generously risking his life and the strength of his bluff to protect me.

With his back on the murderer, his face is only in plain sight to me. He could be scared to have his back turned on a sadist maniac, that can fire on both of us at any second. Instead I see in him only concern for me. His expression is visibly softening, full of a worry and care that only a few hours ago I wasn't sure if I hadn't seen the last of already.

Finally Sherlock stands right in front of me, less than a feet away because, let's be fair, Sherlock never really respects our social distances anyway and tonight is not any different. Then he turns around, facing at my side the man with the gun.

This is active treason right here, the type Victor is coming to recognise in his own time. Sherlock is switching teams, unguarded and honest.

_Well, there's no need to be a bloody martyr, Sherlock! _I take my hand to his long coat pocket and extract my faithful Browning, the one I knew he'd bring (he alone would know I'd keep it from my time alongside Mycroft's rescue team, he'd deduce its bulkiness under my black jumper, and where I'd keep it safe afterwards, as he quietly deduces everything about me).

In the end, it's our speechless communication that brings us the advantage. And that comes from an enduring friendship, not the type Sherlock faked with Victor.

'You're mad!' Victor assures me as he stares to the roughened up soldier claiming his own. There's a deep terror in his expression, from the wrong side of my Browning.

_Heard that so many times, one day I'll start believing._

By my side, however, Sherlock reacts less calmly to our guns standoff. I can tell Sherlock's feathers are ruffled. My best friend immediately spits out to the cowardly murderer: 'John Watson is a far better man than you'll ever be. Don't you ever speak to him like that again!'

_Oh, that's sweet, Sherlock!_

_Now will you finish this and call Lestrade?_

I realise I may have said those thoughts out loud – blurting things is a known side-effect of a concussion – when Sherlock glances at me sharply and then raises an eyebrow. It also tells me there's something that needs to be done first.

_But I can't shoot first in self-defence, can I?_

A small wave of exhaustion pulls a shiver through my body and it's at that moment of my weakness that Victor moves his gun's aim to Sherlock, locking his aim to fire. _Not in front of me, you don't!_ I squeeze the trigger first with a sense of security I really shouldn't possess while sporting a concussion. Next thing we know, Victor's gun falls off his hand and he holds his stomach with visible signs of pain and shock ripping through his body. Not a deadly wound, but a very uncomfortable recovery one; oops, what can you expect of the aim of a man with a concussion? Vitor looks at us in utter disbelief. It's hardly clever for a prolific killer like him.

I'm caught up by my nausea and Sherlock immediately steadies me with his hands on my shoulders.

'Sherlock, I should go doctor him.'

'Leave him', Sherlock snaps, giving me an eye roll. 'Lestrade can take care of him when he arrives... How are you?'

I give my friend an educational stare.

'Right, hm...' He looks guilty at last. 'We need to talk, I guess.'

'Oh, yes, Sherlock, we sure do.'

_**.**_

Doctors make the worst patients and I'm not a happy bunny as the paramedics from the ambulance ignore my professional hierarchy and refer me to the hospital for further examinations on my knee and head.

I didn't ask Sherlock to stay, yet he's not taking the chance to leave, as I'm admitted to a vacant bed at the hospital. There I sit in waiting (I refuse to lie down, I don't even need to be here, I'm a doctor myself, and this hospital gown is itchy). Sherlock has occupied the visitor's chair casually and waits for me to start the conversation.

Looking properly chagrined before we even start.

'When did you find out it was Victor, Sherlock?' I ask, piercing the silence.

'Early on', he confesses naturally. I blink, feeling my blood boiling at once.

'You knew it was Victor and you let him get to me?' I shout at my friend. A couple of nurses look our way in reprimand, in a ward full of patients and staff.

_Is Sherlock my friend?_ Perhaps this has strained our friendship to the breaking point.

'Nonsense, John. I merely knew he'd need another victim soon, not who it was. Do listen and stop overreacting', he tells me off, his arms crossed in front of him.

'I'm - not - overreacting!' I hiss, so not to have the nurses come over.

He rolls his eyes in theatrical disagreement, but proceeds: 'In fact, I groomed Victor, the killer, for him to choose his next victim at Baker Street. Gave him a sense of security and nursed his narcissistic ego. But the chosen victim was never to be you, John. I was to be his next victim.'

'You?' I mumble, stunned. 'Why?' No more shouting as far as I'm concerned.

'In your romantic narratives of our cases, John, you might call it selflessness. I assure you, however, that it was simple convenience.'

'You wanted him to attack you', I gather, still feeling oddly cold.

'So I could stop him, yes. Victor was too perfect. You saw Lestrade's text. There was no DNA on the scene or the victim. In none of the deaths.'

'But you were counting on the DNA analysis.'

'It's almost impossible not to leave traces behind. I thought it was just a matter of assuring the correct collection. When you pointed it out, I was sure it would be addressed properly this time. All I needed to do was keep Victor close by, under close scrutiny. Keep him engaged, so he wouldn't disappear. It worked so well that I actually managed to slow his rhythm of killings by a day. By keeping him engaged in me. Enough time to get the DNA results that didn't come through. A day is an impressive achievement, when it comes to ritualistic serial killers, John.'

'Congratulations', I mumble, out of sorts.

'When I realised Victor had taken such good precautions, I knew I needed a better plan to get rid of him.'

'Being bait.'

'Pretty much.'

'Bait ended up being me, Sherlock', I point out drily.

'My bad', he says lightly, as the natural conversation between us calls for, but I can see the trembling pain in his green eyes, focused on the dark bruises on my neck and temple.

'Did you already know Victor was a killer when you invited him to our flat?' _Our home?_

Sherlock wouldn't answer, interrupted by the arrival of the doctors in charge. Good, I've got some procedural errors to point out at this A&amp;E.

My friend looks at me and sighs, as if he's in for a long night. Still, he won't leave.

_**.**_

'I'm still pissed off with you, Sherlock', I tell him as soon as I'm wheeled out of the x-ray room in a patient wheelchair. They've found a lot of swelling and no permanent damage to my knee. Right now I'm dividing my anger between Sherlock and the hospital, both of which, incidentally, won't leave me alone.

'Why?' Sherlock squints, looking outraged. It's as if he doesn't understand the gravity of what he's put me through. _In fairness, he probably doesn't._

The nurses leave us for now, looking relieved to get away from us.

'You behaved like –'

'I did not', he cuts in, proudly. 'Having decided Victor was to be brought in, I made complete sure you didn't have to mingle with one of the most dreadful people I've ever acquainted with. You were the one choosing to stay, against my plans.'

In his autistic understanding of emotions, he never pondered how I'd feel to be chased out, did he? _Sherlock only cared that I'd remain safe, even if oblivious to the reason I was being pushed away._

So I chose to stay, and I'm glad I stayed, even if it was ever so emotionally painful.

And Victor – Sherlock's _acquaintance_ – was once his friend; that's what Sherlock doesn't want to recognise out loud. Because it doesn't take an enemy, but a friend, to put us in an emotionally vulnerable position that it hurts deep inside if you're betrayed.

Sherlock once said "I don't have friends". I know now that wasn't a choice, but a resolution, a consequence, of a betrayal, too deep for the emotionally vulnerable genius.

That he's trusted me is so much more of a generous act because of it. "I don't have friends; I have one."

'I'm glad I stayed', I say out loud for what it's worth, still overly stunned by the recent events. Sherlock gulps drily, looking at me like I'm insane. He didn't expect leniency. 'You could have asked me to clear my room. Instead, I came home to find all my stuff boxed.'

'And clearly labeled', he adds as if it is of the utmost importance. Maybe it is, in his scientific mind. Soon he catches on to my complaint and refocuses: 'There was no time. You weren't around, having gone work for my brother. I had to box your things for I wouldn't have risked them out where Victor could corrupt them.'

'Like what? Touching them? Spiting on them?' I cross my arms in front of me and shrug.

'Your laptop with such easy passwords...'

'It's an alphanumeric key generated automatically!' I protest.

'You wrote it down', he rolls his eyes, 'afraid you'd forget and be locked out. Then, there were your notebooks, full of important snippets of memories from our cases. Victor mustn't see that.'

'He'd get jealous?' I turn sarcastic.

'He'd understand you, John. And he'd pretend to be more like you to get to me. Victor knew his influence over me was long gone. He's a clever manipulative man. He'd act more like you in order to get to my good side.'

'You'd know it was an act', I point out. _He didn't trust himself not to fall into the trap twice._ 'Sherlock, if that is so, you should have kept me close. I almost left for real.'

He gives me a depreciative look that fails to carry any of the spite he was aiming for. _In his mind, he was trying to protect me, over any self-protection I could have chosen._ Fine. I get that.

I shake my head, gathering my thoughts. 'You wouldn't look at me. And if you did, you looked so cold and distant.' _Are these really my words? So outspoken, so emotional?_

Sherlock clears his throat. 'It wasn't such an easy act as to be expected. It seems I have rather grown... accustomed to our normal arrangements.' _Sharing the flat, being best mates, saving the world; the usual._

'You don't trust my acting skills', I admit. _But it still was a cruel act on me, to chase me out of my home, of my normal life, of my friendship that matters so much to me._

As if by result of mind reading, Sherlock suddenly seems to deflate out of his self-righteousness. He hunches his shoulders, lowers his head, bites his lip. He looks chastised without the need for a clear word from me.

_It was painful for him as well. I'm the closest person he's got in his life and he shunt me out purposefully. That took a toll._

_I'm so glad I refused to let go. I gave him the strength to bring his plan to full closure._

This scary vortex of co-dependency keeps drowning us in an uneasy spiral, but it's also what keeps us afloat.

I reach out to Sherlock, placing a confident hand over his arm and squeezing it lightly. Finally he looks up to me. All the bubbling emotions he kept shrouded are now raw and open in his gaze, making his bright blue eyes a shade of light green and a deep friendship tone.

_It's okay, Sherlock. I understand. I'm not upset anymore. At the end of the day, when it counted the most, you showed me I was your choice all along. I'm touched by such deep reaffirmation of our friendship._

_I'll never let go. I'm just a sentimental fool like that._

_I'll make an educated guess he's one too._

_**.**_

We're back at Baker Street at the first lights of day. So much has happened, but right now I breathe it in, feeling that 221B is returned, homely again.

'I'm not the only one keeping secrets', Sherlock snaps, childishly resentful, as soon as I take a slow seat on the sofa and takes another by my side. Both of us staring into the fireplace.

_He's still not leaving me. Waiting for me to have my say, to vent, to punch him if I feel I have to._

I shake my head slowly. I knew this was coming. This is the adjourned argument about working alongside his brother Mycroft. Proving we're back where we left off.

'There were lives at stake. What your brother told me made sense. He needed my intervention, Sherlock.'

'He's got hundreds of men trained that could have taken your place, John!' Sherlock dismisses. 'My brother wanted to spite me, by manipulating you into joining his little adventure.'

I frown; _sibling rivalry_. But then I recall Mycroft's warning: "you're very different from the last one, John". It was a warning, about Victor. Implying that Mycroft knew, at least, about Victor's proximity, if not masterminding the whole blundering plan.

'Was Mycroft keeping me busy so you could sneak Victor into the flat behind my back?' I ask, coldly.

'You were here when Victor arrived.'

'Not my question!' I snap. 'You actually cleared my room of all my belongings.'

'I needed an empty room to offer a killer, John. It's surely community service to offer a roof to a murderous man and keeping him from the population at large...'

I twist my mouth in disgust but fall silent. Soon, I'm gathering my coat and phone to leave.

'How was your mission in eastern Europe, John?' Sherlock asks very fast, chocking out the words in his haste, as if they've been retained in him for far too long.

I turn around and face him again.

'Seven', I say.

He raises his eyebrows appreciatively. 'Out of ten, I'm assuming', he says, conversationally.

_That's his trouble, right there._ I take a tired seat at my armchair, directly facing the detective. 'No. Seven lives saved, out of seven. That's all it matters.'

His smirk grows wilder by the second. 'Are you planning to tell me you didn't enjoy the danger, the excitement, the good you were doing?'

I finally smile back. 'That helped too... You know, you could have come.'

He nods slowly. 'I would have.'

'Except you already had a case, a secret case. Victor Trevor... Why take this case, Sherlock?'

'Because I knew him best, John', he tells me calmly, sprawling down on the sofa. It reminds me of a therapist session all of a sudden. I focus on what he's telling me. _Victor was once Sherlock's friend._

_Arresting him was Sherlock's way of saying goodbye._

'Do you arrest all of your friends in the end?' I question lightly. _He does like to carry a set of handcuffs everywhere._

He shrugs. 'So far, a hundred percent of my former friends. Mrs Hudson would point out that I hang out with all sorts of people. Not always the most law abiding.'

Well, he could have got me arrested for that first case with the pink lady and the murderous cabbie.

'So... was he your last Friend?' I ask, softer, without looking at Sherlock. Silence follows my words, so that I'm surprised when he actually says:

'Victor was... a bit pushy at times. I was younger and more impressionable when we shared rooms at the university residence.'

'He's smooth flash and bang. Yes, I can see why you'd be attracted to his shine', I comment calmly. _So different from me_, a voice echoes in my mind.

'I've learnt to see beyond the surface since then', Sherlock tells me, looking straight at me in honesty. _I wouldn't be so sure._

'Everybody had crazy times at uni, I suppose', I shrug, giving him a way out.

'You didn't', he declares ominously.

'Not really. Not when you compare going to war willingly, right?' I give him my best disarming look.

'You wanted to make a difference. You had noble reasons', he excuses me easily, gently.

'And you found your calling solving murders. That's noble too, Sherlock.' He smiles at last, a bit shy looking. 'Just tell me you didn't know Victor was a murderer back then and let him go', I beg tiredly.

Sherlock frowns at the sudden request. 'I didn't and I don't think he was. Certainly he was one on the making, but I was too inexperienced to pick up on that at the time.' He ends up shaking his head.

'Maybe that joint love of gore and crimes brought the two of you together. Good and Evil as it were', I notice. At once he rebels.

'If you're implying I'm Good...'

'I am.'

'...you're wrong.'

I shake my head, full of faith. 'I'm right.'

'If I'm Good', he reasons, pushing himself back up to a sitting position, 'then what are you?'

_Flawed_. I look away. 'Both, Sherlock. I was at war.'

He frowns, not understanding. 'John?' But I shake my head; not now. That he understands immediately and in a friendship display he won't pursue it further, not now.

'You kept your faith in me, John', Sherlock tells me after a while. I know it's a question in disguise.

'You kept doing little things for me, Sherlock.'

'You can't have possibly known', he doubts. 'That's a shot in the dark', he dismisses.

_The warm blanket, the Chinese takeaway, among others._

'I'm not as oblivious as you think, Sherlock.' I smile, just to annoy him.

'What I did was not enough to keep your friendship, John.'

_Even boxing my things so Victor wouldn't corrupt them._

'True friendship is based on more than a point system for nice acts performed to each other. You're very good at it instinctively. It's that big brain of yours that gets you into trouble, Sherlock', I pronounce, getting up. 'Fancy swapping tonight? I need a soft bed and a good night sleep, Sherlock, and my room is full of stuff I'll be donating to charity...'

He nods, slowly. 'Right you are. We'll put Baker Street back to order in no time', he promises.

The next day, however, I wake up to find all my stuff moved back to my room in perfect positioning (as I left it before Victor came along; _even with one of my lost socks under the bed – so that's where it has gone!_) and I smile, knowing it's Sherlock's way of apologising. And that he's just getting started, and enjoying it.

_**.**_


	173. Chapter 173

_A/N: Small piece. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'Sherlock, just... drop it. It's been a long day. I'm tired, okay? I really don't feel like showing you I can fire a pistol to hit the target on a church steeple, or hold a bunch of cue cards for you to display them around the room like suspects in a crime scene, or even just to make you a cup of tea. I just wish I could seat by the fireplace and do absolutely nothing.'

He frowns slightly, taken back by my speech. I feel ashamed I just threw a tantrum, arriving as a guest to our familiar 221B and not handling well a too jittery and energised Sherlock.

'Lost a patient, then?'

Sherlock maddens me, honestly. Can't he leave me alone? I throw a dark look; will he just shut up for once? _Of course not._

'No, not a patient', he deduces me, after his shot in the dark. 'You clearly left the surgery early and took the underground to the other side of London. The underground, not the train, the ride was smaller than the train's.'

I face my friend defiantly. 'The creases on my trousers? The mud on my shoes? Would you ever not notice?'

He shrugs minutely, almost as if excusing his instinct. 'Loose change from buying the tickets, on your jeans pocket, jingled as you took a seat on your armchair.' Then, slowly, in familiar gestures, he comes to smarten the fire warming up the room, burning at the fireplace by my side. 'It shows you had to buy the travelling tickets unexpectedly... How did you do with the ticket machine this time, John?'

_Not very good._ 'I won in the end.'

He smirks. I sigh and lean back on the chair, for a good rest, my mood shifting to a better place. That won't stop Sherlock from carrying on:

'You went to the other side of London unexpectedly. Discounting physical and mental coercion, it remains that you must have had a motive. What would have driven you there, clearly against your first instinct? You're tired, achy, you'd clearly have prefered to have returned home. So, your motive? Loyalty. You'd do it for a friend. You'd do lots of things for your friends; no point in arguing, John, it's your nature.' _I decide not to say a thing after all._ 'But you're hardly ever on a broody mood afterwards. So... family? Your sister?'

_I'm Sherlock's new puzzle._ His whole attention focused on me and he'll never let go now. Not until he gets his answers.

I sigh. 'No, Sherlock, it's not my sister. Harry says she's fine. Or as fine as usual. She believes she has her drinking under control... again.'

That's too much of an easy deduction for Sherlock and he moves on. 'Army family?'

I'm startled by his wordings. Before I know it, I've sat straighter and squared my jaw. It's a major giveaway, I know it. This is how Sherlock has come to read me so well.

'No, no news on that front.' And _no news_ of my fellow army mates stationed abroad in dangerous places is _good news_.

Sherlock frowns and changes his tactics. Taking a pondered seat on his own armchair and meeting his fingertips together in front of his chin, he rewards this mystery with his best monologue:

'After the underground ride, you walked a fair distance on foot, crossed a grassy field on a park and finally sat under a sycamore tree.'

I raise an eyebrow and he nods towards the mud splatter and a piece of winged seed from a sycamore tree stuck to my brown shoe. 'You stayed there a while, John. Judging by the current stiffness on your left shoulder and the steady drizzled rain pattern over London for a couple of hours, I'd say you stayed at least one hour... _Actually more._ There's a faint hint of black coffee, no milk or sugar, emanating from you, John. A warm coffee from a street vendor would certainly up your stay to an hour and a half, with at least one hour of it exposed to the cold elements, that made your shoulder throb. Hence your earlier foul mood. So why stay if you were that uncomfortable? Why not relocate? Abandon your mission? Because of whomever else was there...'

I look away, faking disinterest. _He's onto us._

'Someone I know, then', Sherlock grabs the chance to deduce from my reactions.

'Garden path, on the other side of London, someone with the power to summon you and keep you there for longer than you expected. A covert operation, designed to produce and keep a secret... I do hope it's not another birthday party you were arranging with Greg Lestrade, at the park across the Scotland Yard premises, John.'

I groan, defeated. Should have known better than to try to sneak a birthday party past Sherlock Holmes.

'Well, actually...' _it was._

He rolls his eyes in a triumphant manner.

'Just drop it, John.'

_Fine, it's spoiled now._ 'What do you want to know?'

'That you're not inviting my brother Mycroft.' He flashes me a triumphant smile. 'Anything else can remain a secret. If I don't accidently deduce it first. I hardly get surprised anymore these days.' He tilts his head sideways and opens a bit wider his expressive green eyes. 'I may have miscalculated about surprise birthday parties when I trained myself as a detective.'

I can't help but to feel bad for my friend, knowing he must have started very young. Well, I suppose there's one thing I can do for him; give him false clues.

'It's harder than you'd imagine to get hold of a parrot for a party. Exotic species, the RSPCA and all that...'

Sherlock's eyes spark in amusement. He's not believing me, but he's having fun. And what was that about him not getting surprised anymore?

'I would imagine', Sherlock concurs softly.

'And the four feet wide cake just won't fit through the door.'

'A mathematical constraint.'

'Not to mention wrapping your gift in nice paper. That's going to be a bother when it just doesn't stay still...'

I find Sherlock smiling openly at me, like a little kid in expectation. He seems calmer, overall. In anyone else I'd have identified the emotion within as fondness. Somehow I captured the attention and imagination of the mad genius that has been tearing the flat apart out of boredom while I was out. By giving him the only thing I had to offer; a homemade puzzle and the giveaway of his surprise birthday party.

It was worth it. Even if Greg and I have been planning it for months.

I'm set on us all having a good time. Even if Sherlock will have no surprises left to deduce by then.

_**.**_

* * *

_2nd A/N just for that quick self-centered, self-absorbed, self-panicky landmark moment where I've realised the "Just drop it, John" collection is nearing its second year birthday. I thought Sherlock could have this one for himself. -csf  
_


	174. Chapter 174

_A/N: Weird one, it came out weird; it's all I can say. Blame it on a recent bad flu, if you must._

_Based on the assertion, from a (British) friend, that Green tea is not proper tea. Even though it's the same plant. Apparently only Black tea is proper tea. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Sherlock casually phoned me and asked me over to Cambridge, I was coming out of a particularly long work shift. Sherlock's excuse being a 400 year old case, signalled by a rotting skeleton that had surfaced at a water well on a farm. Before Mary even managed to give me a lift over to the train station, Sherlock had solved his case. He obviously forgot to update me on that, so I travelled 65 miles over anyway.

I bumped into Sherlock as I was alighting at Cambridge train station. Seeing him there with his leather carry-on in one hand and a smirk on his face told me all I needed to know about the emergency status for the case. _Cancelled._

Underground stream, over flooded with rain, unknowingly connected the local parish cemetery and the farm well.

I begged Sherlock not to forget to tell the farm owners that the well water was most likely contaminated with an infiltration of heavy metals runoff from an older portion of the local cemetery, including lead from the rotting coffin, and so very unfit for consumption.

'Well, it'd hardly be my fault if they would go drink skeleton water, John! Must you always worry about the rest of the world?'

'Must you not care about anyone else?' I snap back angrily, in the heat of the moment.

Needless to say the journey back to London was tense and sulky. I texted Mary for moral support, at which she's great and it wound me down, up to the point I got a text on my thread that was clearly meant _for Sherlock_. And I glanced at the detective, also tapping on his phone. I groaned under my breath. _Mary's been calming down both of us at the same time and sent the wrong message to me._ Next, Sherlock looked up straight to my eyes, then shrugged.

'Mary asks me to tell you that she's got our texts crossed', he states, recovering quickly into a state of amusement, the more off-put I'm looking.

'Oh, right!' I protest sulkily. 'Now I've got two arguments to go through!'

It was possibly a bit childish, but there was no reason for Sherlock to grab my phone off my hands and forcefully remove the battery from it. He immediately does the same to his and puts all the pieces in one of his deep coat pockets.

'Sherlock, I was talking to my wife!'

'Texting', he corrects for the love of accuracy. It just winds me up more.

'Can I have my phone back?' I bite every word, with a hand out to him.

'No', he states conversationally.

'Sherlock, I'm not asking again...' I threaten.

'Good, I do abhor useless repetition.'

'Sherlock, I need my phone.'

'No, you don't', he challenges me. 'You have an overnight bag and your wife knows you're fine because you're with me.'

I roll my eyes sarcastically. 'No trouble ever gets to me when I'm at your side.'

He doesn't even blink. 'Then it's settled. You can stay at Baker Street tonight.'

'Sherlock...' I sigh. 'Isn't this a kidnapping?'

He smirks happily. 'Naturally. I need a better case tonight. That was hardly a Two out of Ten, after all. Your kidnap naturally sums up to more than a Two.'

I let some tension fade from my shoulders. 'Fine', I concede. He looks to the train window and mutters absent-mindedly:

'No need to keep repeating yourself, John. I do abhor repetition.'

_**.**_

We're still a bit tense around each other, Sherlock and I, as we arrive at the familiar quarters of Baker Street. Immediately I feel another layer of stress wash off of me just from returning to these musty old rooms with overcrowded wallpaper and cluttered surfaces. With Sherlock's scientific experiments in progress at the kitchen and a small fire started in the living room's fireplace, it makes me feel this is a home I'm returning to.

I follow Sherlock's puzzled gaze – _yes, he gets occasionally puzzled like the rest of us_ – to the lit fireplace as he doubts: 'Mrs Hudson is not in tonight, there's a neighbouring landladies gathering of sorts, I believe.'

'And she wouldn't have known we'd come back early anyway...' I add. 'Mary, perhaps?'

Sherlock sniffs the air at once. I roll my eyes as soon as I realise that it means he's trying to sniff out my wife.

'Claire-de-la-Lune', he identifies. _Well, that's it, then! Mary's been around._

I'm not sure why she still uses that expensive perfume anymore, she probably just sprayed the air with that fragrance to give Sherlock her signature. _Why are the most important people in my life so bloody dramatic?_

I shiver to think about what that entailed the last time, at Magnussen's office. _Mary's got a very wicked sense of humour._

'Well, that was kind of Mary', I try to convince myself, as I head off to the kitchen. I need a tea, and then I'll negotiate a ransom to recover my hostage phone from Sherlock.

'Yes, I have reservations too', my friend answers mysteriously as he takes in all of the surroundings with an attentive gaze.

I sigh and shake my head, getting two mugs ready for tea.

'She's your wife, John. You know what she's like', he comments, nonplussed.

_What's that supposed to mean?_ 'She's your friend, Sherlock, and you claim not to have plenty of those, I'm sure you know her well too.'

He nods to let me know it's a fair point. I sigh, wondering why we are so touchy tonight. I've just travelled miles and miles for nothing and Sherlock got cheated out of a promising case. I get that's got to be why, but I'm not ready to give up battle just yet. With a philosophical sigh I sip some of my tea...

...and almost spit it out across the kitchen.

'Sherlock, what have you done to the tea?' I protest loudly, but it's useless as he's already sprinting towards me after my first chocked up noise. Shamelessly he snatches the mug off my hand – ignoring the one I just made him – and carefully licks the rim, thinking hard.

'Nettle tea', he clarifies after a second. He must have consulted some 247 types of teas catalogue archived in his mind palace. Sherlock then frowns at me, slightly disappointed. 'It's not poisonous tea, John.'

'It's not proper tea, that's what it's not!' I complain, pouring it away at the sink.

'I believe your wife enjoys the odd joke.'

I groan under my breath. _Yes, she does, and I'm one to know about it._ But to include Sherlock in her teasing...

'Can I possibly have my phone back now to call her and ask her what her idea is?'

'Not now, John!' he refuses flatly, moving past me to his bedroom down the hall.

I think he's trying to avoid me having a hotheaded confrontation with Mary, by forcing me to wait and cool down. Mary's Sherlock's friend too.

Half decided on following Sherlock and demanding dialogue – he's never been too shy to wander into my privacy either – it takes all my willpower to keep myself from stomping down that corridor.

_Turns out I don't have to._ Sherlock bursts out of his room as soon as he gets in, looking apoplectic and pale. I look at my friend feeling a gut twist and instant worry. 'Are you alright?'

He nods in some flimsy way before he tells me: 'Mary has messed up my sock index, John.'

I grow. _Not that again._ I've never managed to make it out. It's a chromatic, alphabetical and predominant composition order, with defined preponderance for each criteria, as far as I can tell.

_Why would Mary do that?_

Before I can react, Sherlock rushes past me as if the house is suddenly on fire and dives into the living room. I follow him curiously.

There's an empty space at the mantel, I notice only now. Sherlock's pet scull is missing. _Mary has kidnapped the Scull?_

'John!'

I turn around and recognise the indignation with which the detective is holding up his violin case, wrapped over with a leather strap around it that is kept tight on a loop by a heavy locket.

Mary didn't kidnap the priceless violin – _Sherlock might have had an actual fit for real_ – but she locked it up.

This is a very weird demonstration of humour. Mary's confiscated my tea, kidnapped Sherlock's scull and vetoed his violin. Probably, if I go up to my room I'll find some unpleasantness there as well. _Hopefully not scorpions. She knows I don't like scorpions. Any soldier deployed in Afghanistan will fear scorpions._ I shiver before I can help it.

_But why all this?_

'She wants to force us to talk', Sherlock says petulantly, crossing his arms in front of him.

I frown. 'We talk a lot, Sherlock.'

He bites his lip and glares at me as if I'm making him go through something nasty.

'About _feelings_ and such.' His tone of voice conveys deep disgust.

'Why?'

Sherlock strays his eyes over the frail ends of the rug on the floor. 'Because we were bickering with each other, I'd guess, John.'

I'm stunned. 'Yeah. Well... We're mates, we do that.'

'Yeah', he agrees in the unconvinced tone of voice from a child parroting a learnt answer.

'Sherlock...' I feel guilty all of a sudden, and I hate the clutch it has on my heart. 'You know you're my friend, even when you're insufferable. That's what friends do. They stick together. Doesn't mean I can't tell you when you wasted my evening because you didn't even think of letting me know you were done already!'

Something is off, I understand as I see Sherlock compliantly nod and put up no fight. _There's something I missed._

Before I can make sense of that reaction, I see Sherlock disengage and, appropriately bored, move on to the kitchen area, where is mini science laboratory is laid out.

I shake my head and pick up my laptop from the living room table. _If this is how it's going to be like..._

My armchair looks all inviting as I descend on it with a comfortable sigh. Not a second later in jumping onto my feet again.

'John?' Sherlock calls me, full of genuine concern.

I close my eyes and groan, rubbing my eyes with my hand. 'My Union Jack pillow', I start explaining slowly, 'It has pricked me.'

Sherlock's eyebrow raising up on his forehead is the only reaction, before an amused smirk takes over his features.

'Pricked you', he repeats.

I clear my throat to start again with all my dignity, while facing the offending pillow. 'Pinecones and pine needles, I believe, going by the lumps on the surface of it.'

Sherlock nods slowly. 'Good to know you two are getting along, John. Imagine the usage of a chestnut tree, John.'

I rub my face harder, tossing away the pillow carelessly. I seat again – albeit more carefully this time – and get to the laptop on my knees.

'John', Sherlock calls me softly. I twist myself to look over my shoulder, back at the kitchen. Sherlock's standing very still by the counter.

'John', he goes again, 'someone has put actual food in the microwave.'

'Sacrilegious', I comment, holding in a chuckle. I look back onto my laptop, automatically opened on my blog. 'Just don't eat whatever has been inside that microwave, Sherlock, it's not fit for consumption.' _Why do I always protect Sherlock?_

In fact, a lot of my life is focused on Sherlock, the self-centred genius that is sometimes oblivious to his friend's needs. _He could have told me the case was over. Spared me the journey._

I strain over the blinking cursor on the white square box, waiting for my input. Sherlock solved the case, and deserves adequate praise for that, so I start:

"It was a cold foggy afternoon in Cambridge when Sherlock Holmes"–

What appears on the screen is nothing like I typed. Even with my shortcomings at typing, I know this is not what fully pressed into the keyboard. What is showing on the screen appears to be Greek letterings.

I'm surprised as I sense Sherlock already looking over my shoulder at the screen. 'Mary's changed your keyboard language settings, how creative.'

I blink. 'Sherlock, can you put it back?'

He shrugs, uninterested.

'We could talk. Instead of me listening in on your slow pecking away on that infernal device.'

'It was about your case, Sherlock! I thought you'd be glad', I defend.

'It was a Two at the most.'

'People care about those sort of cases.'

'Of course not... Do they?' he second guesses, curious.

'Yeah. And you did a great job too, Sherlock.'

He bites down a soft genuine smile, thankful.

'You took too long to get there, John.'

'I took the first train, Sherlock', I reject the idea. He rolls his eyes and his whole attitude changes to childish displeasure.

'You're never around, John', he huffs as he dives into his leather chair sideways, coming to rest half reclining, half dangling off of it.

'Come on, that's not fair', I try to state.

Instead of defending his side, Sherlock slowly takes his hand between the armchair pillows and then draws out a gun. _My gun._

'Sherlock!' I yell warningly as he points it at the wall over the long sofa. 'Don't you dare!'

He huffs. 'As always, you see but you do not observe, John.'

'What do you mean?'

'There's a reason I didn't tell you I finished the case, John.'

'Yeah, you couldn't care less', I snap back, 'how tired I am or how many hours' shift I pulled.'

'Wrong!' he wavers the gun's aim to the tall lamp.

'Cut it out, you're not shooting that lamp, it'll short-circuit the whole electrics on Baker Street.'

He shrugs calmly.

'The end result of my deception, John?'

'I don't know. Extra rail mileage?'

He brings his gun to part an unruly strand of hair from his forehead and points it back at the wall.

'You need to try harder, John, not to be boring.'

_I don't know._ 'I ended up here, in Baker Street, with a lunatic. Is that all?' I mutter sarcastically.

He presses the trigger. I'm already recoiling as I anticipate the violent sound of a detonation indoors, when all we see is a string of confetti and hear a harmless burst of dry gunpowder from the gun. _Not my gun after all._

'Yes', Sherlock says immediately. 'I didn't tell you that the case was done and over with because I miss having you around. My brilliance was about to put an end to my enjoyment of the company of my married overworked friend. There! You solved it, John!'

I feel crestfallen. I didn't realise Sherlock was feeling so lonely. I should have been more attentive. Instead of bickering, we should be making the most of our time together.

'Sherlock, I...'

'Just drop it, John. I understood already. May I remind you I abhor repetition?'

I smile at last.

'Cluedo?' I volunteer.

He smiles peacefully, putting the gun away in its temporary hideout. 'Thought you'd never ask.'

'And then we plot to get at my wife?' I add, just to make sure.

'Absolutely', the childish detective is gleeful in anticipation.

_**.**_


	175. Chapter 175

_A/N: This came about with the very beginning of the of the special episode. Still on the process of writing it – fingers crossed! – and I sensed about three parts._

_As always, I'm not British or a writer, and I don't know what I'm doing most of the time I write. This beginning is what came out of my own insomnia, a while ago. Alert: I think I got a bit carried away._

_**Part 1**__ -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Baker Street is home to a bunch of insomniacs. Fair enough, I'm usually the one with the nightmares. Violent, desperate episodes that culminate in dry spells of insomnia. Right when sleep is so needed and welcomed, I toss and turn, the striking live-feed-from-the-past sensations threatening to replay over and over again in the ominous darkness of my damaged mind. Not all of it; God, no. One incident is enough for the full nightly replay of landmines going off or an insurgent attack beaching the safety of the compound. Like a devious movie critic, I keep replaying the best bits in my mind. _Not good._

It's standard therapy procedure to tell the patient to focus on the present time, or even a desired future, free of further triggers. Anything that might break the connection with those haunting past experiences.

_Like a masochist, I don't always do that from the start._

Not when my breathing pattern has escalated and I'm under a cold sweat that embeds into my night clothes, making them clad to my feverish skin, over my trembling frame.

Life gets pin-focused on basic survival just then. Breathe steadily, cover yourself with a blanket, try not to be sick all over yourself!

And when my surroundings grow significantly different and my old shoulder injury joins the chorus of complaints as all of my body aches, my muscles strain, my stomach churns and my heavy head pounds, not even then do I fully give in to the outside reality.

_How disrespectful it'd be not to spend a few minutes alongside the memories of my fallen comrades? _But persisting in this unhealthy hallucination can only drown me further and eventually – be it fair or just a survival mechanism kicking in – I suck in a lungful of air and open my eyes wide. Uneasy and forceful fingertips clutch at my left shoulder and I let that pain ground me. Because my shoulder pain only comes, in the war chronology line, after I've been shot, after my career as an army medic is shattered. Because that pain tore me away from the hell I was experiencing numbly everyday and pushed it all back, made it recede into the darkest corners of my soul.

_I made it. Others didn't._

_Can't explain why me._

_Am I guilty to have survived?_

A third moment fills me with restless, self-loathing energy, and I fight to have some control over my own limbs, to coordinate them long enough so I can get on my feet.

I need air, I need a walk, I need something that can distract me and–

_No, there's Sherlock._ Can't wake him up.

He's downstairs. Hopefully asleep, in his bedroom. _If we're both lucky._

Sherlock took me back. Baker Street. Said he had a vacant room upstairs. Asked me casually if I wasn't taking it. After Moriarty's return, after Mary, after–

I grabbed on to that remaining shred of human connection with all my life strengths. Only at times like tonight do I feel something akin to regret over my decision.

_Sherlock shouldn't be subjected to this._

_It's been nearly every other night._

So I sit back on my bed, back straight against the headboard, and stare aimlessly at the blank wall opposite.

I've got front row tickets for the show during the next couple of hours at least, till it finally fades away and regresses back into the shadowy corners of my mind. I just stare ahead; silent, respectful, unblinking. The thousand yards stare. In the bleak darkness of the room, lights, noise, trepidation, colours and smells all violently collide, explode, dance grimly in a meaningless way. I watch it all, rapt, intent. Jumping at the loud noises, retching at the strong inputs of death and decay.

A small part of me knows I should have sought that distraction in Sherlock after all. I should have stepped away. I'm messed up to stay for this.

_Maybe this is where I belong._

The raging noises are growing madder and louder. Senseless pain surrounds me. And yet I cannot take my eyes of it.

_Sometimes I wonder if there will be a day I won't be able to come back out. At nights like these, I start to believe this is where I belong._

'John?'

A self-deprecating smirk emerges at my cold dry lips. _Oh, I didn't see this one coming. Usually Sherlock's jump nightmares are wholly separate entities from the war ones._

_Don't know why I lost that battle too._

My traumatised mind is really doing a number on me tonight.

'John, can you hear me?'

Sometimes replaying past events is not enough. My tortuous mind seeks new ways to punish me, by mashing and creating new scenarios.

I turn my head slowly towards the door frame, by which a slightly frightened looking Sherlock stands. Bending ever so little to look less towering and imposing, waiting for my permission to enter the room.

The git knows how to be polite when he chooses to, then.

And there it is. Under the loud cacophony of war noises, Sherlock stands very still, alabaster skin glowing under the moonlight filtering in through the translucent curtains, the brisk red lines of blood oozing across his face, spreading with mad beauty.

'I'm sorry', I whisper.

He shakes his head, oblivious to what I'm seeing. 'You didn't wake me up', he answers innocently to the simple guilt I should be feeling. 'I had the toxic plant extracts experiment going on and... John, are you listening to me?'

_So young and so dead._ No, I'm the deadly one; I'm the toxic one.

'John, your pupils are blown wide and your stare is fixed...' he hesitates '...beyond me. John?'

'I killed you, didn't I?' I rasp out at last.

'Shit.'

Now, that doesn't happen often; Sherlock cursing.

'John, I need you to focus. This will soon be over and you might not even remember it fully. I know I will. But I won't torture you by recounting it. You're a private man, you wouldn't like it. To know I'm aware of this much. We'll go back to acting like you have insomnias because you drink too much caffeinated tea. I can do that. I can't wait to do that for you, John.'

I shrug my shoulders. _Why?_ I don't even bother asking that to my hallucination.

'Trust me', he almost begs. 'We'll get through this. _Together._'

I nod out of instinct. Of course I trust him.

'Is it nice where you are, Sherlock? Peaceful?'

Possibly not. He's frowning a lot. Maybe he's cold too, for I see him shiver. Only once.

'I don't want to alarm you, John, but you may have been drugged', he states very seriously.

I shake my head. _Honest, doctor's opinion._ 'I'm still asleep', I tell the funny apparition. Just because he's Sherlock. And it'd nag Sherlock for all eternity not to know what was going on.

'I wouldn't be so sure', he confides, coming closer.

'Trust me. It's always like this.' I must make sure to calm him down. I think he's new at this. But not me. I've had my fair share of sleeping conversations with my friend after he died at St Bart's. He always comes to me not remembering any of the past talks. Unblemished, untainted, innocent. And I can't tell him _why_; he always asks me why.

'Because I couldn't protect you', I confess, tears tingling, hidden in my eyes.

'I didn't say a thing, John.' He's more freaked out by the minute.

The other noises have faded out somewhat, as I've turned all my attention to a new, deserved kind of hell.

_This reminds me of the old days when I had Sherlock. I don't want to let go. Ever._

'I'm quite certain you've been drugged, John.'

_Not again with that!_ 'Please, Sherlock!' I huff. 'Let's not waste this time. I've missed you. I thought we could talk. Like the old days.'

Sherlock nods slowly, guardedly, and comes to take a seat a the edge of the mattress where I'm curled up. Keeping himself at a short distance from me. He looks absolutely freaked out and yet he's trustingly at an arm's length.

'Can you remember the poison, John?'

I purse my lips and roll my eyes. Sherlock's idealisation is as stubborn as he ever was. 'Nope.'

'I mean it. Tonight, just a few hours ago, at the kitchen table. Did. You. Pick. Something. Up.'

I frown at this demanding Sherlock, asking me to focus on a recent past event. Only now I realise the red lines are magically gone from his face and there's a pale warm glow of a bedside lamplight in the room. The lamp stands by a glass of water (I'm thirsty actually), loose change and an opened book I must have been reading, marked on a specific page with my gun.

'I was tired. I only had tea, Sherlock.'

My friend's spitting image looks along my gaze, to the bedside table.

'What do you see there, John?' He squints.

I shrug. 'Nothing.'

'Don't lie to me!' he hisses, but immediately regains his composure. 'The tea, John. Where did you get the tea?' His voice is insistent. 'Did you take it from the table?'

'Yeah. I mean: no.'

'What is it going to be? Yes or no? Think carefully, John, I need to phone the Poison Control Centre and tell the paramedics your answer.'

I smile softly. 'I made my tea with a tea bag, while looking at your experiment on the table. I didn't touch it.'

He frowns, clearly not expecting this answer. Then his face lights up just at the same time it crumbles down. 'Did you get a clean mug out of the cupboard?'

I strain to focus.

'There wasn't one. I just grabbed yours.' At his scandalized face, I admit: 'Not sanitary, I guess, but you were done and I didn't feel like washing up. With the flat and all the crime scenes we work together we probably share a bucket load of germs already, Sherlock.'

He blinks in utter disbelief, then suddenly races out of my room. I can hear his heavy footsteps stomping down the stairs.

_'John, I poisoned you!' _he still yells in his wake._ 'This is going to get worst before it gets better!'_

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	176. Chapter 176

_A/N: Yes, sometimes I worry about my mental sanity when writing these. Maybe I should just_ _take up jogging. Trouble is that I hate running._

_I'm reining it in a bit on this one, because the next one gets darker. Second part of three, or maybe four; still in progress. There'll be a happy (sort of) ending. John and Sherlock will be okay._

_Still not British, a writer nor do I have more medical knowledge than the average person (aka, I'm making this up). Nerium oleander, the very toxic plant, does exist, and its use in gardens and public ways is not uncommon and dates from ancient times. Its choice is often due to size, nice flowers (usually white or pink) and high tolerance to pollution. Most people don't have a clue it's poisonous. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'I ran out of conical flasks, John. I never run out of science glassware when you're around. It was mildly disturbing when I reached out and found no more conical flasks. Upon calling you I got no response, and I was forced to assume you insist on going to your boring, predictable, regular work with sick people. Meaning you weren't at home. I had no idea when you had left so I couldn't ascertain how long you'd be gone. All in all, it was a rational decision, to use the second best type of vessel available for my experiment in progress. I used a mug. My mug too, as you are so keen to hoard yours and prohibit me from using yours. A mug seemed like a perfectly acceptable receptacle, to be used as a temporary measure', Sherlock confesses, indifferent to all appearances. Only his tone of voice and the disdain conveyed by his raised chin don't quite match the concern his eyes can't hide from me. The green and silvery blue undertones of his eyes are like a tempest at sea; a raging maelstrom of emotions reined in by sheer single-mindedness.

One thing alone is keeping Sherlock focused – the fact that I need him to remain that way. Cold, factual, precise. Both dutiful and alert, he needs to keep his wits together so he can direct the paramedics to me and my situation once they finally get here.

_And so, compliantly, he's playing it cool; after all, he's just poisoned me, not for the first time._

_Well, this time it really was an accident._

'Poison', I repeat, absent-mindedly. 'Oleander?'

I seem to have sobered up with the prospect of a deadly poison running through my veins and the nightmares have faded somewhat due to Sherlock's strong presence, or some unexplained alteration in the poison's absorption rate into the blood stream.

'Traces of _Nerium oleander_', he agrees in full disclosure. 'Not sure if enough to cause permanent damage. Anyway, no time to waste on chitchat! Bottom up with that bottle of water, you need to keep hydrated!'

Suddenly Sherlock is jittery like a million butterflies around me. I'm stilled into numbness by contrast. My friend is all over the place, wearing himself out; I'm left as a confused spectator to his newfound distress. He won't touch me, nudge me, force me with any action on his race against fate. In his overwhelming respect for this former soldier, he won't act in ways that might be perceived as confrontational or threatening. He knows I'm still triggered by the sensorial memories of my nightmares and he's dead set on not disturbing me further.

Sherlock remains innocently oblivious to the memories replaying inside my head. They keep rolling in the background. With Sherlock near me I can focus on him and put them aside for now.

I can't help but to flinch when the worst of a roadside explosive device detonation comes up. The detective's eyes instantly narrow, zooming in on all my microexpressions and tells. In response, he brings a soft hesitant touch to my forearm for the first time.

His brushing fingertips are so gentle, yet his hand feels boiling hot against my cold clammy skin. It's as if it's burning through me, seeping deeply into my skin, trying to reach my core and spread some warmth in there as well. I whimper and close my eyes to try to control a sudden burst of nausea.

But closing my eyes only traps me further in my own dungeon of bad memories, and I can't stay in here any longer. Sherlock might have understood something, because he doubles the grip in those fingers he's gently laying on me, and it grounds me.

'It's alright, John', he lies for my benefit.

I nod, sharply, and snap my eyes open, desperate to be the strong soldier I need to be right now.

'Drink some more water, John.'

'The poison was in your mug.' I'm ignoring his directives and insisting on retracing the moment when I ingested the toxins, when I became the victim at a crime scene.

'Well, you made me promise I wouldn't use _your_ mug, after the last time... the last time...' his words die out slowly.

'Last time you poisoned me accidently, yeah.'

_I won't even talk about those times when it wasn't an accident; at least on those times Sherlock made sure not to use deadly substances._

'Yeah, well, I gave it my best!' he claims bravely, in an attempt to lighten the dark mood in the room.

_Sherlock is more then used to murders; he's just not used to having long conversations with the victims before they die._

'You're not going to die, John! Stop thinking!' he snaps at me, almost hysterically, weaving trembling fingers through his unruly curls.

Sherlock actually bites his lower lip. Looking quite miserable and vulnerable. I take pity on the mad genius-child at once.

'I'm sure it'll be fine, Sherlock.'

_Even though you've chosen to experiment with one of the deadliest vegetable poisons known to mankind. Because you were bored._

He plays at an awkward shy smile that only resides in his face for a brief moment, as if acknowledging my generous kindness at a crisis. He recovers enough confidence to go back to his typical self and direct me:

'Come on, John, drink that water. It's not poisoned, you know?'

I smile along to match the cheekiness of his remark. I know he's trying to cheer me up. I gulp down the still water and regret it at once, as my stomach cramps violently, forcing me to bend in two.

I'm sweating and shaking as I seriously doubt the validity of his water as a medical treatment.

No further considerations cross my mind as I turn over the side of the bed and vomit into a waste paper bin. I push myself back to the centre of the bed with unsteady hands and allow myself to fall on the damp sheets, groaning. Sherlock takes the opportunity to lecture:

'Expelling your stomach contents will reduce further absorption of the toxic compounds. Nicely done, John!'

_Sherlock cheering me up when I'm poisoned to death is way too abstract for me to make good sense._

'Did you...' I gasp, 'call for an ambulance?'

'Four minutes ETA', he confesses, frozen at the sight of another of my muscular contractions as pain ripples through me.

'F– four?'

Suddenly Sherlock dashes off my side and races down the stairs.

'I'll make them hurry!' he promises on his way down, hanging on to his control by a thread.

_That's too bad. Only Sherlock could keep the nightmares away._

_**.**_

'I'm glad you're here, Sherlock. Scares me a bit less when I have you around.'

In front of me, standing by the end of the bed in an eerily immobile stance, Sherlock's keeping a close eye on me. But my words produce a reaction he can't hide, and Sherlock's lower lip quivers as if he can't accept what I'm telling him. It saddens me, even if this Sherlock is just a ghostly apparition, an imprint of an old friend as conjured by a damaged mind in seek of human connection.

'I won't leave you alone, John. Still, you should know my research tells me it's not fatal, this poison. Very few documented cases have resulted in death, and in those, other causes could not be excluded. You're making history, John. As always, under the most commonplace exterior you keep doing extraordinary things that surprise me.'

'Like being poisoned to death?' I squint.

'It's a myth', he insists, firm. 'People don't actually die from traces of oleander.'

I smile softly. It'd figure my imaginary friend would take my medical knowledge to try to soften my predicament. Because no matter how much Sherlock is acting cold and rational around me, he's got a real soft spot inside him.

Maybe some time ago, the Sherlock I knew would have been terrified, panicked. Not this one. This Sherlock has been through the thralls of death himself, and he knows the pain of loss and the hardships of battle. This Sherlock is more patient, wiser.

'Will you stay with me throughout?' I ask of him. 'I think I'm scared.'

As my friend is about to reply I hear my name being called sharply and I look onto the doorframe, where the familiar voice came from. Sherlock – _the real one_ – all frazzled and brave, is standing there in shock, staring at me.

Did I say something weird out loud? _Oh._ I'd imagine the real Sherlock would have guessed I'm frightened, but hearing it only made my confession more painful. _He blames himself._

_He shouldn't._

_I don't blame him._

'Mycroft's arranging for a specialist team to be ready upon your arrival at the hospital, John. He knows I've poisoned you', he admits, uncomfortably. 'I thought you'd want to know. Mycroft also told me I need to go tell Mrs Hudson, so she can let the paramedics in. I'm going to go down and warn her now, John... I promise you I will return, John, okay? And then I will not leave your side again.'

I nod, full of faith, as he turns and dashes down the stairs.

_**.**_

'There has been some delay with the ambulance, John. Apparently it got a flat tyre. For some reason they failed to account for that possibility and send two ambulances at once. It's medical negligence not to send a replacement ambulance just in case, and I'll make sure it won't happen again.'

I'd swear I can hear low growling under Sherlock's breath as he recounts the news.

Moaning, I let my head fall back against the pillows and stare blankly at the ceiling, where the white plaster is the perfect canvas for the ongoing moving picture of battle that still circles me, getting closer and closer, tight around me till I can hardly breathe or move. My cardiac rhythm has gown slower in the past couple of minutes and I've become lethargic. All a known response to this category of poison, some lost knowledge in the back of my mind points out.

A sludge filled glass comes to rest on my lips, impatiently, demanding that I drink it. I blink my eyes, blearily.

'Activated charcoal. Took it out of the deionising water tower I keep on my lab downstairs, in the kitchen. Drink it. _Now!_'

It's Sherlock's voice hollering at me, yet I'm fairly confident he does a good Captain Watson barking orders' impersonation.

I comply, full of trust for my mad friend.

Tastes ashy. Not a bad flavour, as far as ashes go. Just an odd, off-putting, texture.

'More!' he demands at once, tilting the glass, and making me cough and gag. A good portion comes to run down the front of my tatty t-shirt and Sherlock rolls his eyes impatiently. 'Don't go anywhere!' he yells in a dumb request, annoyed.

Make that a _great_ impersonation of Captain Watson in battle.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	177. Chapter 177

_A/N: That I wrote the first portion of this during my lunch break at work is not weird at all (!) That in all I wrote so much it spilled onto another post after this one only comes to prove this was a tough plot for me to handle. Hopefully I manage to pull through._

_This is the third part of the I've-poisoned-John sequence. (I've got no excuse and I'd be sent to literary hell if there was such a place.) One more to go after this one._

_Please remember that __when one__ is writing from a character's point of view, one is extremely limited by that character's perception of what is going on. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

The activated charcoal promotes the chemical binding of the toxins and other poisonous substances I've ingested, thus stealing them away from harming me further as their further absorption by the body is avoided. Sherlock's usage of his laboratory supplies is not exactly text book, nor is it certain that what I've ingested actually works the intended way, helping to save my life.

Sherlock's desperate measures derive from the paramedics delay. He's watching closely as I fall deeper within my demons and further away from his reach. He won't leave my side anymore. Exception being made for this fast run downstairs to find more activated charcoal he can reuse as a medication. I rather think that was it. Just like I'm the one typically washing his conical flasks and other glassware, I'm also usually the one keeping his laboratory inventory under check.

_All of this could have been avoided had Sherlock labelled the toxic mug._

It seems like _forever_ even if logic dictates he can't have taken more than a couple of minutes till his return, empty-handed.

Anything can happen in two minutes and perhaps I know that better than anyone.

Towards the end of Sherlock's two minutes absence – might have been more – the whole room turned rather grim, full of replayed memories of war. I tried fighting them, I really did. I tried closing myself off to the darkness they carry, but as always they are too heavy and drag me down with them.

Sherlock's back, materialising from nowhere in a genius act. Desperate and intense, he takes no time to zoom in on his friend fighting off invisible shadows, huddled on the floor by the bed and nightstand. He calls out my name, sharp, decisive, authoritarian. _I'd gladly surrender control to my friend._ Allow him to drive the shadows that haunt me right now. I'd thankfully allow someone else to take control of this nightmare. My own mind is dragging me down to the depths of my terrors. I don't believe anyone else could be as merciless as I'm being to myself. Because only I know I deserve it. For what I've done in the war, and what I failed to do. The lives I failed to save.

I whimper and recede further into the curling form I'm creating, in a pathetic childish attempt at self-preservation.

My friend keeps calling me. He's so close, and voicing my name so loudly. Yet, like an out of tune radio, I can only hear my name breaking apart from afar. _Like the connection I hold to reality._

A tentative soft touch startles me, as Sherlock's gentle fingertips touch my forearm, where I keep my arms wrapped around my folded legs, hiding my face over my knees. I flinch and Sherlock takes back his hand very quickly.

I know he didn't mean to hurt me. No matter the helplessly confused state I'm at, I trust him as a deep instinctive core belief.

_Who I don't trust is myself._ I'm too confused right now, struggling for survival in two different worlds. I might lose the control I hang onto by a thread and lash out against a perceived intrusion on my personal space, believing myself under attack. I may yet hurt him, and he wouldn't understand it. That I can be drowning in a different reality around me, one he can't see, observe, identify and quantify.

The therapist assured me I'm having a breakdown in those times, and that the war is only in my head. "I am safe." I wouldn't be too sure. All evidence assures me this is too real, too raw, and that I'm deceiving myself in believing this is London, and safe ground, that Sherlock Holmes is alive and present.

_I know he's gone forever. I saw __it __happen__._

As I accept the sorrow filled reality and how deeply I miss my friend, the raging sounds of battle grow stronger and louder. The swirling chaos of detonations and firearms going off, with its inevitable implications, escalate at every instant, and I'm overwhelmed by the sensorial inputs around me.

If at first I managed to keep a certain spectator's distance by forcing myself to believe the battle isn't true, now the poison running in my veins has brought the war back into my personal truth.

I can't help but to shiver; this is going to be a long night, fighting for survival.

_**.**_

I'm trashing on the floor, trying to duck away from the falling debris after a violent detonation. I can hear the pained sounds of the ones caught up by it. I should get up. I should go and protect them, heal them. I'm a coward as I flinch and writhe on the ground, trying to survive. Being human does that to you. Reduces you to a merciless version of you, when you're desperate for your next breath, hating yourself for the momentary fear that paralyses you. Eventually you act – sure you do – morality kicking in at last, but by then how many lives have been wasted by those seconds of numbed shock, fearful hesitation, and finally brave gathering of strengths to fall back into battle?

Among the powerful inputs of pain and destruction, my instincts flair as I find one sound that doesn't match. This person is not fast breathing, heavy moving, exhaustion filled. _The enemy._ I must fight him. For me and for those I can save. This is my life's mission.

Suddenly I fight back, with all my strengths. One powerful punch and I get the shadow away from me. I'm left awkwardly waiting for response, gasping for air, in the vortex of war that surrounds my every move.

'John...'

I shake my head. I will not be distracted. I know Sherlock is not here. This is the war. Sherlock is safety, he doesn't belong here. _This is my territory alone._

The fast track sound of heavy automated firearms takes me back to the ground, searching for cover.

How silly is that I know I'll die in this battlefield and yet I insist in fighting for survival? _I'm not giving up; it's not my nature._

In a desperate move I stretch to reach the nightstand, grabbing hold of all I find on top of it. The lamp falls to the floor with a loud crash, and I take my book. With trembling hands I extract the gun I bookmarked it with.

_I won't go down without a good fight._

'John, let go of the gun!'

I grab on tighter to that one advantage that can always settle the score. There's a reason I brought back illegally a gun from the army. It's what allows me to sleep soundly at night after all I've witnessed out there.

Suddenly someone grabs hold of the gun in my hand and tries to pull it away from me. In my struggle to maintain possession, it goes off, fired against the wobbly nightstand. Not even with the surprise or the hot steal burning the enemy's fingers will he let go. Nor will I. At least not until that someone twists my wrist painfully, almost to breaking point, and finally I lose grasp on the one piece of security I held. Immediately I try to regain it, but I hear it slide across the floor as if it had just been kicked away.

The enemy takes hold of my shoulder – my good one – and that ignites a new fire within me. I desperately punch back but my curled fists hit nothing but thin air. I'm losing the battle. The enemy launches himself over me and slams me against the ground. It feels like cold hardwood floor, but that's wrong. This is sand where I'm lying; it's suffocating me, as I'm pressed forcefully against it. I try to roll over and to kick my opponent, but it's been a useless effort he's foreseen with ease. Meanwhile, all around me seems to have become indiscernible. Darkness has fallen, and in the desert the night is all encompassing. Only the stars can shine some light, if you're that lucky. This must be one of those nights when not even the stars are witnesses to the human misery.

My wrists are forcefully gathered together and restrained behind my back, over my uneven heavy breaths. I can feel the enemy positioning himself over my sprawled form, pinning me down, I can feel his tense muscles overpowering mine, forcing me into immobility. I struggle one last desperate time, but he's too stubborn. As if his mission is too important to give up. I know I must have hurt him, I know he must be in pain, but he won't back off.

'Stop it. Now!' he growls by my ear.

'Sher...' I call for help under my breath. But I know he won't come. I'm desperately on my own, hopelessly alone.

The hand that forces me down over the back of my neck hesitates for a second alone. Then returns to its relentless, humiliating force, pinning me down.

Probably a smart idea too, because I'd fight back for my life, given half the chance.

Deflated, I know I'm defenceless, and in an effort to hold onto any control left in the game I stand still. Gathering my strengths for later, when it's over or I get a chance to break free. For now I abandon hope and force my mind into blankness.

_No one can claim from me a fight I don't have._

I try to force my mind blank, distant, empty. To salvage whatever I can hide deep within my core. Anything else is spoils of war to someone else.

The tight force with which I'm being held down lessens inquiringly. I won't take the bait, I know I must keep hiding, I mustn't resurface. Blankly I stare ahead, watching the terrors I know with such familiarity. They keep me company.

_This is where I belong, after all._

A hand goes up to my shoulder, surprising me with its soft touch. I think I hear my name being called at a distance, then repeated with a touch of hysteria behind it. I close my eyes, exhausted. Maybe it's over. Maybe I can let go now.

'John, please...'

I won't risk it. I know it's not over. _It never really is._

I feel myself falling deeper into myself, and I lose that last grasp on reality.

_**.**_

'John, please. Can you hear me? You must be able to hear me, John.'

Sherlock's voice is so soft, as he pleads with me for my attention. It's so unlike what I'm used to recognising from the mad genius that it assures me this is nothing but a blissful hallucination yet again.

No matter what, Sherlock's hallucination has the same funny effect than the real Sherlock; it flickers the switch off on the haunting memories. The sounds and other sensorial inputs, so truthful that I could swear by them, recede for a moment, and I revel in those rare moments of exhausted peace. I could smile, because I'm safe, and whole for now, and it is perfection and all I could wish upon some time earlier, it's a dream come true, no matter how modest in essence.

'John, I know you can hear me.'

I'd gladly accept hallucination-Sherlock's company by my side for the rest of the duration of this night.

I decide to let go, to merge with the whimsical side of my nightmares and accept this Sherlock's presence by my side. Better to have this conjured Sherlock than nothing at all.

'Sherlock...' I groan through a scratchy throat.

'That's it, John, focus on me now.' The voice is quiet, subdued.

That's exactly what I decided to do. Focus on the impossible reality that is but a sweet dream. Give up control altogether.

'Hmpf', I grump back, less than eloquent. Even this copy of Sherlock is sure to give me a hard time of my lack of verbalisation skills.

'The paramedics are here, John. They will take care of you, good care. You can trust them, do you hear me?'

I frown, worried. 'Did you chase...' I start slowly '...the enemy away?'

'What enemy, John?' I'm asked.

'Was here... just now.'

My friend takes a second longer to answer, in a controlled voice: 'He won't come back, John.'

'Good', I decide, with a sigh. 'Not in the mood for fighting.'

I can hear the small hitch in his breath, as he hides a small smile. 'Of course not, John.'

As I try to stand on unsteady hands to elevate myself off the floor, Sherlock immediately wraps his arms around me and sustains part of my weight for me, assuring I can have my upper body off the floor. As he's kneeling and takes me in his arms to keep me up, we both know I can't quite make it up on my feet and have any sort of dignity left as the paramedics are coming in, storming the room.

Usually I'd outrank them all professionally, but not tonight. There is no doubt in my mind that I'm the patient tonight.

A sharp pain of a needle being stuck on my neck – for faster access of medication through the IV line – brings me back to reality with a painful gasp. Sherlock immediately pulls me closer, till he's just about hugging me, both of us sat on the cold floor of my room, as a man who's beyond caring about the impression we may give to the rest of the world.

'Tell them...' I beg to Sherlock's creased shirt directly '...I'm not allergic to—'

'Shh... They know what they're doing. Just drop it, John. Let go now. You've been putting up a good fight, now it's our turn. Let them give you the medication you need and I'll keep you safe and protected.' Slowly, gently, he rests his chin over my short blond hair, as one would do to a child, silently letting me know he's got me covered.

I shake my head. 'There's a war out there', I try to explain what he can't know.

'Close your eyes and trust me, John. I'll take care of you. Tonight you are not alone in this battlefield, John.'

I nod, falling deeper into his shirt, exhausted, as I'm the practising target of multiple injections. 'Keep an eye out for the enemy, will you?' I mutter as I let go. 'I got him right, but he's a very good fighter, Sherlock.'

My friend just hums, in quiet agreement.

'Not as good as you, though', he assures me just before I fall under the combined chemical action of the paramedics expertise. 'You've been putting up a fight that honours the soldier in you, John.'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	178. Chapter 178

_A/N:__ The fourth part__ is the last after all__, in the I've-poisoned-John sequence.__ I got carried away, as I stated before. Perhaps I didn't really know where I was heading when I started it. Apologies for dumping these last three portions so quickly, it's been intense to write. In the same frenetic manner, I added them in to the collection just as fast. _

_Back when I first realised there was such a thing as fanfiction, this was possibly the first story that materialised in my mind, but I don't think I could have been brave enough to write it then. I'm brave enough now to say: this I my version, it's as flawed as I am as a writer, but I'll stand by it in my own honesty. Thanks for putting up with my stories._

_ This is just experimentation on my part; as usual, I have no inkling on the themes I'm playing with, nor do I mean any disrespect to those strong, incredible people who do. It just fills some weird void in my life to keep imagining stories; aka, I get bored; aka, I have no excuse. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

The repetitive whooshing sound of a ventilator fills the quiet hospital room, juxtaposing the low beeping of my life stats at a neighbouring machine. The nurse has been checking and flushing my IV port with calm and detached movements and finally readies herself to leave.

'Please don't turn off the lights', I ask her in the last second. She freezes and crosses her gaze with mine.

'You need to sleep, doctor Watson. Give your body the chance to recover.'

I nod in respect for what she just said but insist stubbornly: 'Please.'

She hesitates a second longer, then nods, diminishing the lights only partially. 'Do try to get some rest.'

I follow her walk to the door with bleary eyes, and as she opens it I see a tense lanky silhouette pacing outside, just before she addresses him harshly: 'Mr Holmes, I told you—'

The door closes as Sherlock and I are exchanging symmetric worried looks at each other, both ignoring the nurse's lecturing.

_Sod this._

I push my blankets off me briskly and swing my legs over the side of the bed. As a doctor myself, it's hardly a difficult exercise to disconnect the ventilator, the oxygen metre, the BP cuff, the heart monitor, the temperature probe and the IV line without raising an uproar in the hospital. That I've come to be hooked up to all of these in the first place is somewhat daunting. I guess it really was a close call.

A small fit of cough rattles my thorax and jolts painfully at the superficial burnt marks from where the electric shock pads where placed, from the crash cart (not really dead, no; just a worrisome arrhythmia settling, thank you). I shake my head to clear it and take a few deep breaths to assure my blood is well oxygenated. Finally I start walking towards the door of this private room in tired, unsteady steps.

'Sherlock?' I ask as soon as I crack the door open just the slightest bit.

He's slumped ungracefully – looking deflated, under the cover of the barrier that kept him off my sight – sat on the cold linoleum floor of the corridor. With his long legs stretched, hardly accommodating the string of nurses and doctors who pointedly ignore my rogue visitor that refuses to leave his vigilant position. Finally I recognise a puffed nose under his messy curls, and some spots of dried blood on his creased shirt. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and he's got no jacket or other warm piece over the shirt, messed up beyond recovery.

As Sherlock spots the door blinking open, his light coloured eyes shoot up with such surprise and unconcealed hurt that I'm stunned by such raw display of care. He perks up as he takes in the sight of his friend on his feet and looking – I assume – much more within normal reason.

'Sherlock?' I repeat.

He half-hazardously scrambles to his feet and rushes to meet me. I push the door open a little bit more to let him in. My secret guest, my best friend, my protector.

Carefully I close the door to the medical team's knowledge.

'John, I killed you!' he confesses at once, in an opening bid for conversation. How long he's been holding on to the torment of that statement I can only imagine, along with the incredible guilt it carries. Sherlock then lets his words register properly, and regaining some composure, he shakes his head. 'Well, not really, but it was unsustainably close.'

I smirk, as he's already casually pulling my arm behind his neck and supporting me back to the cold hospital bed. His care, as always, is displayed in the simplest of gestures, never publicised with grandiose moves like he does in his every case.

'I'm not that easy to kill, Sherlock. You ought to have learnt that by now. I've been through the war, deranged over-the-top criminal masterminds and the odd pub brawl. I'm still here, Sherlock.'

He lowers me back to the thin mattress and waits patiently for me to catch my breath.

'I was unaware of the extent of what you've been through, John, prior to our acquaintance.'

I frown. Did I let out any sign on my torments? I've always been able to keep them on the back of my mind, hidden from plain sight, a secret from the ones who know me, but this time... Well, it took a fatal category poison to make me spills the beans, if indeed I did that. _Can't recall. It's all muddled._

'Didn't have it worst than the others, Sherlock. I wasn't the only one over there, you know', I add with a slight head tilt. The Captain Watson's typical answer. True, although private and contained.

'But you're John', he protests mildly, shaking his head, as if to an intrusive thought that troubled him. Those simple words conveying so much more than he knows how to say out loud. _I'm John, I'm the one friend he knows best, I'm the one he can't help but constantly care about as a good friend does. Well, I'm honoured._

'It's fine', I assure my friend, suddenly feeling absent and letting my eyes wander through the small hospital room. 'How long have we been here?'

The typical question is how long have _I _been here, but I know Sherlock hasn't left my side since arrival. _I asked him to do that, stay with me, I recall that much._

'Not enough time for your full recovery', he tells me gently, insisting I must lean back on the uncomfortable bed.

Some awkward silence falls between us as I settle back on the pillows. What do you talk about when you've been poisoned to death earlier that night? It puts chitchat into perspective. But I'm British, we know how to do small talk. Well, I'm not bringing up the weather or sports with Sherlock...

'Your oleander extracts case... Did you have a case or was it scientific curiosity?' I ask Sherlock calmly. Shocked, he looks at me as if I just opened the gates of Hades with my question. He gulps down and prepares to answer my questions, methodically.

Sherlock bites his lower lip and strays his honest gaze. 'It was one of Lestrade's cold cases, he brought over earlier this week.'

'Oh', I say, just to fill the gap in the conversation.

'By the way he sends his best wishes, John. Along with Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and a few others that got wind of what happened.'

I fake a small smile. 'Mycroft got you an ambulance...'

'...with a flat tyre', he snarls.

'Mrs Hudson opened the door to the paramedics.'

'Yes, she did', he agrees more gently.

'Why was Lestrade involved?'

'I had a question for him.'

'Go on...' I entice him to talk.

'I needed to know what happened to the victim on the cold case.'

_Oh. _The one poisoned with the same as me. 'That's how Greg found out.'

'He sort of guessed it from my questioning. And the tone of my voice, he claims. Which is absurd, of course.'

_Of course!_ Sherlock's looking frazzled yet, it was no big leap for Greg Lestrade.

'Sherlock...' I start cautiously. 'Did I do that to your nose? Was I aggressive towards you?' The overwhelming feeling of shame makes me feel abject. I don't deserve Sherlock's friendship if I attacked him during my confused state. No one should be subjected to violence, especially when they were only trying to help.

'John...' He just says my name, softly. I can feel the soft touch of his hand on my shoulder. It comforts me to know he's not frightened of me, that I didn't badly impressed him lastingly or in such way that he'd shy away from me now.

'Did I say nasty things? Did I hurt you in any way? I can't recall, Sherlock. You need to tell me', I beg him, desperately.

Rubbing the sore tip of his nose, Sherlock bravely assures me: 'You did nothing you should ever need to be ashamed of, John.'

'Are you sure?' I look up, hopefully, as innocently as a former soldier carrying wars inside him can be.

'Absolutely', he tells me in a rich voice.

I smile at last. 'I can tell you're fibbing, Sherlock. I can see you were punched by a left handed person like me. Unless you've insulted dearly the paramedics and one of them is left-handed, it's safe to deduce I did that to you.'

He smiles back at me, honestly. 'Don't be boring, John!' he deflects easily and with the same companionship from before the night I was poisoned to death by Sherlock's lack of health and safety instilled principles.

'You can't accuse me of having made your night a boring one, Sherlock!'

'No', he agrees quietly. 'And it was most informative too.'

_Okay, now I'm scared._ But my friend ignores my soft nudges to make him talk and just leans back on his visitor's chair, hands pressed together in front of his chin, probably receding into his mind palace.

I'm not ready to recede back into my mind anytime soon, so I look around in the room for a while, helplessly trying to find a better distraction.

'Did it help you solve the cold case, me unwillingly having the oleander poison?' I ask, hoping for a silver lining to my dark clouds.

Sherlock is stunned off his reveries by my question. 'I believe it acquits an innocent person and puts the blame down for another, John.'

I nod, slowly. I'd much rather that something good came of my nightmare.

Sherlock changes subject abruptly, with a new jittery burst of energy, getting up. 'You need to fulfil your basic needs with some food and drink, John, prior to some rest. Shall I see to that for you?'

_Well, I can't blame him. I guess he's stayed by my side long enough._ 'Not hungry yet, Sherlock. Give my best to Mrs Hudson and the rest of the gang, will ya? Tell her I'm fine already.' I close my eyes tiredly, even if I know for sure I don't want to sleep.

'I'm not going anywhere, John. You asked me to stay. The way I see it my mission isn't over yet.'

Accidental poisonings aside – and I'm sure he's learnt his lesson on heath and safety – I couldn't have chosen a better friend to stay by my side.

In a lower, softer whisper, Sherlock then adds: 'Someone needs to keep your nightmares at bay.'

Slowly, keeping my eyes closed and my tired body resting, I allow a smile to come to my lips.

_**.**_


	179. Chapter 179

_A/N: To all reason, this one was hiding inside my pen and decided to spill out of its own accord. (I still had to type it afterwards. I wish all of them could hide inside my laptop.)_

_Still not British, a writer, or John Watson. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Sherlock was a young child when he realised he was different from the other children. Some wanted to go outside and play football, others were lucky to delight themselves with the first gaming devices, most of them just wanted to be with their mates, running around all day. Sherlock was like them in so many ways also. He too had a pet, that he adored. He really enjoyed music and – in one his first displays of obsessive, addictive behaviour – he practised playing his violin in excess, rapidly developing his abilities to more complex pieces that only the accomplished violinists conquered. One gifted chemistry set sparked in him an explosion of curiosity, cementing in his mind the notion that the world outside his window (while he created those small explosions, and turned water into poison and back into water) could be as easily categorised into neat little boxes as the elements of the periodic table.

Homeschooled at first, I believe, he heavily depended on his family, isolated in a cosy but secluded country cottage, to assess the dynamics of social interaction. There was always his brother, at least at first. A good age gap between them only favoured Sherlock's niche of being the youngest in the family, with the partialities such position often entails. Sherlock was sheltered, protected, loved.

Maybe even a bit too much, for when his perfect world started falling apart and rebuilding – his older brother went to university moving out and far away, his father's health deteriorated and he started working from home in complete isolation at his study being so close and so unreachable – Sherlock felt as lost as only a lonely child can be. Silently, he adjusted, like all children do. Unfortunately to the world that meant he withdrew from the outside reality and started spending considerable amounts of valuable time in his own self-sufficient, incredibly rich, world.

And when tragedy struck, perhaps the first time ever with such intensity, a grieving child that missed his beloved pet took upon himself to keep him alive in his imagination. Redbeard, the dog, would forever be a joyous puppy and a companion for adventures in little Sherlock's world.

As he had seen being done to himself, so did the child do to his beloved conjured lost pet. He kept him close. In a possessive love like that one that nearly clipped Sherlock's young wings, Redbeard was assigned a small space. A dog house – or maybe a shed – where he could always be found to come out and play.

No one outside his rich inner world realised Sherlock was internalising his grief in such a way; by creating an alternative reality where he could pretend his dog was a constant companion. Where he could correct life's wrongs and pretend they didn't happen.

Soon the loving boy gave his dog a bigger house. One that truly honoured their friendship. So Redbeard could run around. And perhaps Sherlock could dream other dreams in it as well. With his older brother drawn away from his life, Sherlock felt lonelier than ever, and that resulted in spending more and more time away in his mind.

It grew to be a palace, or so Sherlock says. I'd say it's more of a description of size than opulence in that. When my friend, the consulting detective, sits in his leather armchair and easily slips away from reality, fading into the recesses of his mind, I watch with wonder how much the little boy has grown and yet feels so appeased in his imaginary world.

The Mind Palace technique is something wondrous, having given further function – and a rational one – to what was once, essentially, Sherlock's special hideout as a child. Somewhere between those walls, Redbeard still lives, and he's perfectly loved as he chews on rubber toys in libraries full of gruesome necrology statistics, forensic science techniques and other data stored. It's an eclectic collection of all that Sherlock prizes the most, I'd assume.

So beloved is Sherlock's whole Mind Palace, as he calls it, that he dislikes entering it with witnesses on the real world he evades for a while. All his attention focused on his rich inner world, Sherlock would be left only too vulnerable as he slips into his data repository hideout.

He has briefly visited it, at the speed of a door-to-door salesman coming to the entrance, in the presence of DI Lestrade and Molly.

For all the aloofness he may have acted around our landlady, Mrs Hudson is one to know Sherlock is always "lost in that big head of his", as the detective truly trusts her and allows longer visits to his Mind Palace. She'll dust and hover all around him (and on occasion under his stretched out legs and under the armchair) without alarming her tenant. She'll even bring him the odd cup of tea, only to take it away reproaching him when it's gone long cold.

As to me, former full-time and nowadays occasional flatmate, I have not messed with Sherlock's broody patches much. He has warned me from the start: "sometimes I don't talk for days on end; would that bother you?"

Sometimes I'd come home from the surgery and find Sherlock exactly where I had left him that morning, before an eight hour shift plus travel times; sprawled along the long sofa, artistically disarranged dark curls spread on the same tweed pillow, no new creases on his pristine silky white shirt that could indicate movement of some sort. I don't believe he fed himself, went to the toilet or fulfilled further basic needs other than the autonomic set ones. Breathe, blink, pump blood through the heart.

As I walked in, suspiciously glancing at the man planking on the sofa, then I usually felt the first comeback signs. A hitch in his breath and – almost always – as I turned away I could still sense a rapid eye movement following my lead, rapidly analysing me.

Sherlock would poke out of his shell, his transport, to sense if _I_ was alright. I assume he deduced my day in two seconds flat from the near invisible clues I'd carry, and more often than not, he receded back into his private musings with a renewed sense of security.

I'd make him tea, and get dinner going. I'd make noises and monologue about my day if I wanted to ease him out of his world and into mine.

Eventually he'd comeback, full of an eerie vitality and with bursting energy, acting as if he hadn't been gone long at all.

Even when Sherlock was in an unreachable place, I always enjoyed his company, because I could sense the energetic mad friend lurching under the surface.

_So unlike today._

Today Sherlock is furthest away than ever. I can't sense his vibrancy, his brilliancy, the creative explosion of all that comprises Sherlock Holmes, under the white cotton sheets of the hospital bed. My friend remains immobile but for the steady rhythm of breathing that animates his prostrated body. Long arms exposed over the bed sheets, left hand attached to the IV fluids and the BP finger monitoring device. His head resting on a couple of flat pillows, his face tilted away from me slightly. On his jaw line some extension of red abrasions, on his temple a simple dressing covering two stitches over an inflamed, bruised portion of skin. These are the only visible signs that Sherlock is hurt, justifying this odious hospital bed, and the patient's tardiness in returning to full consciousness.

There was an explosion, one that knocked Sherlock harshly to the floor. A couple of steps behind, I was hit by the hot air mass with less force. Sherlock lost consciousness with the impact on the ground and that remained thus since.

_It's been nearly five hours now._

His vital stats are all within normal range. His reflexes are barely present, just under the surface. In a scale of responsiveness during the unconscious state, Sherlock dwells right before the brink, near the comeback, hesitating on that final step back.

I'm left at his side as a spectator to his lazy delay, worrying. _Please come back, Sherlock._

I've spent my last few hours wondering where Sherlock has stopped on his journey to return. His Mind Palace must have provided much needed solace and comfort, after the physical shock of the explosion in real life. I can understand why Sherlock might miss spending this freely won time in there; no pressure from cases, science experiments, data collection or others. No reason to go in and readily come out. Free reign to explore familiar comforting territory at his heart's delight.

_One could get lost in that Mind Palace of his._

In an impulsive move I cover his hand with mine. I wish I could feel his presence here, I wish I could rescue him out of the deep pit he's in. If my hand could rescue the man and pull him back to the surface unharmed after his wander down there, then I'd be proud to have done my job as his friend.

Sherlock doesn't react. Still immobile, still unreachable, still cold as I wrap his fingers with my callused hand.

I look over my shoulder, in that small private hospital room. Paranoid, I just wanted to make sure no one can overhear me if I say these things out loud, in the hope that some sleepy part of Sherlock's mind actually registers them:

'It's time to wake up, Sherlock. Rise and shine. You've been hiding in there for far too long.'

No reaction, of course. How could I be so stupid as to hope for one? I sigh.

With another glance over my shoulder at the closed door, I then look back onto Sherlock and clear my throat.

'It was my fault, you know? I'm the soldier, I'm supposed to protect you, keep you safe. Neither you or me guessed about the explosive device, Sherlock. If not even you knew beforehand, then perhaps you can forgive me for failing to protect you...'

I blink hurriedly and look away.

'You don't like to be inside your mind with strangers around. You barely tolerate us, your friends, around. But not even then do you go this deep. No, you wouldn't dare to, normally. So I'll stand here and keep you safe, while you climb up. It's the least I can do.'

Clearing my scratchy throat I add:

'I'm keeping you safe like you've done for me from the day we met.'

Squeezing his fingers in my hand in a reaffirmation of my promise, I allow myself to fall back into a numbed silence.

It takes only a few seconds before I feel a minute twitch in my grasp. Immediately I look down on Sherlock's hand and, without letting it go in what I hope is a comforting gesture, I look up to my friend's pale face. He blinks and grimaces before fully waking up, returning to consciousness, gathering his senses. I wait patiently for his unfocused gaze to feather over the room and to acknowledge my presence as his pupils focus properly, after a hitch his breathing to become livelier, for the first restless readjusting of limbs on the stiff hospital bed in search of a comfortable position.

'John', he says my name in a deep whisper, only when he is sure he has mastered his body and mind again.

I conjure up a smile, not trusting myself to talk anymore. Probably best, for he's looking around the room again, searching for those minute evidences for the recollection of what happened and why he is here. Finally he settles back in his pillows, analysis run with success, and hisses silently as he closes his light-coloured eyes in an obvious tell of a bad migraine. Well, that was to be expected, after the knock he got when he was projected backwards a few feet by the sudden explosion.

'Sherlock?' I call him quietly, in no more than a whisper, not wanting to cause him further pain in his head.

Still I haven't let go of his hand, nor does he part his fingers from mine.

'You were there', he whispers back. It only highlights the confidence nature of our conversation that we whisper, and although I'd appreciate to hear his confident, derisive even, usual tone of voice, I'm glad to be part of these borrowed confidences from both sides.

'Yes, there was an explosive device in the—'

He stops me by squeezing my fingers, intertwined in his.

'No, after. You were there.'

'Inside your head?' I reply in a quizzical tone, not sure where this conversation is heading.

'Mind Palace, John', he corrects me. 'You were there.'

I feel thankful for such an honour.

'Did I make you straighten up any mess you've got in there?' I joke lightly. 'If it's anywhere near the clutter at 221B, then—'

A new squeeze shuts me up abruptly.

'The explosion messed it up, not me', he defends himself. I start to worry, as a doctor, if he's showing signs of confusion, melting together two parallel worlds into one.

'No, John, I know it wasn't literally you in there. I'm not thick', he hisses. 'And nor are you. Not in there and not in here. You helped me... tidy up in there before I came back.'

_Doctor, soldier, blogger and cleaning crew; who knew?_

'You're welcome', I say at last, because I need to say something and I'm too stunned to find something logical. 'I'll be there whenever you need me, Sherlock, you should know that.'

A soft smile comes to his lips. A knowing smile, so like the confident detective I'm used to. 'Just drop it, John, I needn't ask', he adds. 'I never have to ask, and yet you are always there.'

'That's what friends are for', I minimise, as I swallow that pride that warms my heart. 'You should rest, Sherlock, you are getting tired. I'll stay here, keeping a look out, if it helps.'

He nods, it helps. Closing his eyes and sighing as a man letting go of his gathered reserves of strength, he squeezes affectionately my hand in his and murmurs: 'I followed you back, John. I'll always follow you back home.'

I also close my eyes, allowing calm to fill me at last. _I know he will._

_**.**_


	180. Chapter 180

_A/N: Excerpt from a long ago previous post (Yeah, I'm quoting myself now...)_

"_My time with Sherlock taught me not to depend on pyjamas [at night] but on comfortable clothes that can double up as active wear in case of emergency. There was this time when a smoke curtain Sherlock was creating at the kitchen table went wrong and half of Baker Street quarter got evacuated from their homes in the middle of the night. Mycroft Holmes came to the rescue covering up the incident with rumours of a small fire (probably more of a covert threat there), rather than allowing the knowledge of his baby brother's insomnias to the world. On other occasions, clients came knocking on 221B's door in the middle of the night, the strangest one coming in looking for help to find a missing goldfish. That turned out to be one of Sherlock's favourite cases to this day, I believe."_

_Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the missing goldfish case. (Even though Sherlock never claimed it was one of his favourites, John insists it is.)_

_**First part**__ of however-many. Still under construction. Apparently I like to make my life harder than it needs to be. -csf_

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_**.**_

Sherlock Holmes' clients come to Baker Street in desperate need of consulting a detective that won't turn them down like the Metropolitan Police. Sometimes they choose Sherlock because no crime recognisable by the law has been committed, or because the crime is yet to be committed. Quite often it appears to be a petty mystery that hides a deeper secret with dangerous ramifications to the clients. Kidnaps, extortions, blackmails, all in a day's work. Sherlock's favourites have got to be the murders, though; he insists on defending himself by saying it's not morbid at all, that it's a relief when the human element on the crime being solved can't nag him. As for me, I've begged him to stop saying that in front of the press, it sends off the wrong impression.

Some clients come up to 221B looking all dignified and composed; like the triple murderess of Leeds, that thought she could frame someone else by keeping cool. She almost succeeded. Other clients are falling apart when they come through the door, like the father of two who lost his kids in the playground – the kids were found still playing safely hide and seek in the same playground dad had left them.

_But as I was awoken in the middle of the night just a while ago, I've come to find the most unexpected client and case combination to this day..._

Sherlock's insistent knocks on my bedroom door only half awoken the man fast asleep on the bed. From what I gather, Sherlock knocked and called me from the threshold for a bit – which is actually quite polite for a self-labelled sociopath – before throwing politeness out of the equation and stomping into my room, making as much noise as possible. _There's a good reason for the stampeding footsteps._ He leaned towards his stubbornly sleeping flatmate and gently laid a hand over my shoulder, my good shoulder. Next thing he knows a sharp hand grabs his wrist and another fists itself and recedes for a punch before my eyes are even open.

_Soldier reflexes, a souvenir from my war days._

I blink as I recognise Sherlock, already manoeuvring himself out of the range of the punch I didn't get to throw at him.

'Sherlock?' I ask, still confused.

'John', he says my name, soothing me with the calm rich tone of voice, dripping with familiarity.

'I was going to chin you!' I protest, turning embarrassment into anger.

'Nonsense', he dismisses as if nothing much. 'You are doing much better, John.'

I groan, rubbing my face with my hands, trying to hide in them my washing down feeling of shame.

'Good morning', I mutter, after a few seconds easing my breathing into a normal pattern.

'It's two am, John.'

'Then why are you waking me up?'

'We've got a client!' he tells me excitedly, grinning.

'I'll get dressed in a jiffy', I promise, getting up. _It's got to be important, if Sherlock is this happy._

'No time!' he refuses, pulling me along in a friendly but insistent way. 'The client is waiting in the living room already.'

I roll my eyes. This middle of the night visitor better not be here on account of tax fraud, blackmail or anything of the sort that could have waited till morning...

'Alright!' I raise my hands in the air in surrender, so he'll stop pulling me. 'Alright. Coming, Sherlock!'

_**.**_

For all his impatience, Sherlock actually slows down, keeping up with his sleepy blogger as we climb down the stairs into the living room.

In the soft glow lights that brighten our living room there's the silhouette of a tall man in a sharp suit, with his back turned on us. Even so, I recognise him at once.

'Mycroft?' _What the—?_

Sherlock's older brother turns around to face us, maintaining all his studied composure. 'John, how have you been?' he asks politely, as if in an educated, desperate attempt to set himself apart from Sherlock's usual clientele.

'I've been asleep', I answer factually. 'I got woken up... Are you the client?'

Mycroft Holmes almost cringes when he hears this. Sherlock, navigating around him, takes a seat in his leather armchair, facing all of us in the room. That reminds me to be the politer one.

'Want to take a seat?' I volunteer my own armchair. 'Maybe I can get you a cup of tea?'

The embodiment of the British government refuses the tea and motions himself to the armchair. Again, looking all composed, controlled, borderline bored. _It's all an act. It's got to be bad._

'You may want to be careful', I alert him, 'there's a broken spring...'

'...at the left-hand side', he finishes my fair warning with a tight smile. 'Yes, I know.'

_What doesn't he know?_ I grunt to myself.

Sherlock cuts in: 'Don't bore us, Mycroft. It's the middle of the night. I was studying the crystallisation patterns in honeycombs and you've just dragged John out of bed in track suit bottoms and sleeveless t-shirt. If you've just came here to check my scientific studies or John's sleeping attire – both of which were readily available through the concealed cameras you insist on planting in this flat – and by now you're all done, you can use the same door you came in to exit the flat. If not, I suggest you start talking and... Don't... Be... Boring.'

Mycroft hesitates. I can tell he's tempted to enter the brotherly bickering contest, but he pulls himself together. 'I have a small employee problem, little brother.'

Sherlock's eyes widen, but he remains loyally silent this time. I can sense the understanding synergy established between the two brothers. What it refers to, I haven't a clue. I clear my throat, just to let them know I'm still around (and clueless).

Mycroft's demeanour goes straight to sour – having to deal with minor intellects again, I assume – but Sherlock won't have it.

'Do explain yourself, Mycroft. John didn't quite catch.'

'Does he need to?' the older Holmes remarks acridly. _Because I don't solve the cases, Sherlock does. I just trail behind the detective, in Mycroft's opinion._

Instead of actively defending or shunting me, Sherlock chooses a less well-travelled path. 'John is my blogger. He is aware of all the particulars of the cases. It's how we work.'

Funny he'd say that. _Especially given that it's not true._ I'm often kept in the dark. Because I didn't catch the detail, because I don't have a huge memory repository of forensic data, because Sherlock won't let me know, or Sherlock wants to shine with his delivered answer, or even just because Sherlock has drugged my coffee again...

Mycroft, however, understands this is a condition being laid out for the acceptance of this case. Sherlock insists I must be made aware of all the facts it involves. That makes Mycroft's pursing lips thinner until they turn white and then, with a grimace like someone who just tasted something gone off, he addresses his brother directly: 'Fine. I am missing my goldfish, Sherlock. I trust you've understood that much. Care to translate that to John?' he asks with a dismissing gesture my way. I look over at my friend.

_Goldfish? Are we talking about pets?_

Sherlock smiles victoriously before turning to me and explaining at a high speed: 'John. Anthea is missing. Her disappearance is not voluntary. No distress code signals have been issued, no ransom demand has been identified, and no reason for her absence has been brought forward.'

I frown, and blink. 'Anthea is a goldfish?' I gather.

Both Holmes brothers roll their eyes. 'Think of it as a codename, if you will', Sherlock diverges, but something in that doesn't quite ring truthful. 'By the way, "Anthea" is not her real name, only the one you know her by as Mycroft's personal assistant. The few people who know her real name are herself and Holmes family members.'

'Yeah, I knew it's not her name', I confirm calmly. Figured that much in the first few minutes I met her.

Sherlock blinks, actually caught off-guard, and Mycroft only smirks.

Anthea escorted me as I was coerced into my first secret meeting with Mycroft Holmes, I had only just met Sherlock and his older brother wanted to assess me. She sat on the back seat of the dark heavy car that was kidnapping me with finesse, her big doe eyes always stuck on the blackberry at her fingertips, energetically playing tetris (or some other game on her phone) or, who knows, controlling a small foreign nation from her phone while her boss was out of the office. She was distant, civil, goddess-like, as one best be when kidnapping a former army veteran off the street, careful not to trigger a fight, or just in keeping with Mycroft's personal style.

We got along just fine. There was a sense of honesty about her as she refused to give me information she knew I was rightful to demand and gently letting me know there was no point in fighting. Not as if she wanted to break my spirit, but as a fellow fighter to another, letting me know it was best to lay low and let it flow for the time being. There was also bravery, I suppose, as most people who get kidnapped after being stalked by public phones ringing for them would be a touch wound up, might even turn violent. She didn't bat an eyelid at that possibility. From the start, I truly respected her as an enemy in London's battles. We both respond to more influential, more knowledgeable people in London, who happen to be brothers. I believe Anthea to be a faithful, loyal employee that Mycroft is incredibly lucky to have on his side.

I tried asking her out, now I'm glad she declined. We would never have suited each other. Too much secrecy and paranoia on each side.

I could imagine sharing breakfast the next morning.

_Hi, Annie! Having coffee already?_ I'd ask as she was sipping from a mug. She'd smile blankly, looking all innocent.

_It could be coffee, John. Or tea. Maybe I was just thirsty and it's water. Could be poisonous for you. I cannot disclose the information... John._

Well, I guess it wouldn't be worse than having breakfast with Sherlock when he's being sulky...

'Annie...' I murmur under my breath. I'd expect Anthea to have a real name that is unlike her faked persona; much more down to earth and simple.

Sherlock side glances at me, arching a brow. I think he heard me. 'Anthea's real name is not Annie, John', he dismisses for my benefit alone, looking away with all the contempt he's always had for my girlfriends before Mary.

'Then what is it?' I lay the trap without a blink.

He smirks, not falling for it. _Well, it was worth the try. I've got other tricks up my sleeve._

'How can you be sure her disappearance is not voluntary, Mycroft?' I ask her boss directly.

'She is... very dedicated to her work.' Again, I can tell he's choosing words and what information to disclose.

'She's still human. She's got to have family, friends...'

Mycroft dismisses all that with a grandiose hand gesture. 'I said she is very dedicated, John.'

Sherlock intervenes: 'Us, Holmes, are very intense people, John. We demand full attention. Anthea accepts that.'

'She abandoned her family and friends to become Mycroft's PA?'

'Being close to a Holmes is life-threatening at best, John. You should know that. Anthea accepted to leave her old life behind so no exterior pressure could ever be put on her to betray her employer.'

_Sounds like she's been refused a real life in order to protect a man with great value to a nation. _'That's a bit... not good.' In my humble opinion.

'You're a soldier. Surely you understand the concept of a cause.'

_Or blind allegiance._ 'That's hardly fair on her', I defend Anthea.

Mycroft shrugs. 'She didn't complain', he says.

Sherlock adds: 'She's loyal to a fault, John. That's something we, Holmes, can appreciate.'

I glance at Mycroft and wonder what exactly the relationship between those two is like.

'You are sure Anthea was kidnapped?' I repeat. Mycroft thinks I'm slow on the intake, for sure. But I just repeated the obvious because I needed to sense Mycroft's fleeting reaction to my words. Kidnapped. As I expected, he minutely flinched as if in regret. _He does care for her; as a close employer or a friend, I don't know._

'That's the reason of my nocturnal visit, John', Mycroft concedes over-politely, then glances exasperatedly to his baby brother in the hope that he can take over the conversation now.

'Fine, we'll take your case, Mycroft', he says lightly. 'You owe me big time. You can go now. We'll be in touch.'

Mycroft grimaces more than he smiles, but politely accepts: 'I'll be eagerly waiting, Sherlock.'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	181. Chapter 181

A/N: Still building the plot somewhat. Apologies if it's not that exhilarating. **Part two** of however-many. Still under construction. -csf

* * *

_**.**_

Mycroft's goldfish has been abducted. Only it's not really a fish out of an aquarium, but a person. A real person. Perhaps one of the closest people Mycroft Holmes, the Ice man, has got in his life, and she's only his personal assistant. With the same despise for the vulnerable human emotions the backstage politician has taught his little brother as life skills (don't get me started on how wrong they are...) not even Anthea is one to claim to know or understand the man behind the ice mask.

I assume that was the idea. _If Anthea is unlawfully missing, then what she can be persuaded to share about her boss is far less than the criminals holding her will be impressed with._

I once wondered if Anthea could actually be a Holmes family member as well, being so trusted in that isolated PA position. I soon came to the conclusion that she is not, given the usual pattern of bickering among themselves as a Holmes siblings' common trait, and how it doesn't extend to her. No, Anthea is definitely not family.

_She's also not a fish._ The reference to a goldfish is some sort of code or inside joke Sherlock has yet to explain to me.

The weirdest thing in all of this business so far seems to be how Mycroft came to ask for Sherlock's help. And sure Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective, the best detective in London and probably in a larger area as well, but Mycroft himself is reputed to be quite high up on the IQ scale as well (Sherlock claims his older brother is smarter than him, but I'm not too sure). Surely if it had been Sherlock the one wanting to locate a missing "goldfish" he would be out and about on the streets, talking to possible witnesses, searching for hidden clues, running himself to the ground after the most feeble leads. Mycroft has done nothing of the sort, he only came to his younger brother in his best, most dignified manner, looking coldblooded and level-headed, and asked Sherlock to do the legwork for him.

_It just doesn't add up._

Sherlock, however, has ignored the blatant differences between him and his brother, and he's intensely typing at my borrowed laptop. Looming over the coffee table, restlessly sat at the edge of the long sofa, all his energy seems to be concentrated on his fingertips and fast running mind.

Quite the contrast myself, I protest, as I pace around tensely over the Persian rug: 'He's got the secret services wrapped around his finger. Why not entrust the mission to his own people?'

Sherlock shakes his head dismissively. 'No, he won't trust them. Nearly everyone has their price. He _can't_ trust them for this. Anthea is too valuable as an asset. She knows Mycroft's habits and secrets only too well.'

I stop short in my aimless walk. 'Do you think Mycroft's enemies have got her?' _My goodness, she could be tortured..._

Sherlock breaks eye contact with the laptop screen for the first time, glancing at my worried look, and a small twitch at the corner of her mouth is the only response before he dismisses bravely: 'She's been trained to withstand torture, John. Anthea is not merely a secretary, she's secret services trained. Don't be fooled by her harmless looks, she has used them on missions before.'

My breathing hastens, anger swells at my stomach coming from somewhere I cannot identify, not without a clear head, and it's raw and deep. 'Are you okay with this?' I ask, thunderously, shouting even, at my impassable friend. 'Anthea has dedicated her life to help a Holmes and the minute she needs help you both turn around and say "well, she knew what she was getting herself into"? Have, any of you, got an inkling of how much she gave up to accommodate Mycroft? Just because she "didn't complain" everything is okay now?' I huff, so fired up that I actually need to turn around and leave the room before I do something stupid. But I halt a few steps later, before I hit the stairs up to my bedroom where I need to change my clothes. 'Sherlock, just because it's generously offered doesn't mean Mycroft doesn't have an obligation towards Anthea', I state, controlled.

I'm about to get up the first steps when I hear Sherlock say, more calmly than I'd want him to, as a Holmes: 'I know that, John. I know it well. Sometimes, however, I fear my brother, like all Holmeses, doesn't quite think like that.'

I sigh and turn around to face my friend. In the first lights of the morning mingled with the soft electric glow inside 221B he looks young, vulnerable; so human. I finally recognise the demons he's carrying. This is not only about Anthea in Sherlock's eyes. _This is about me._ Anthea is the closest thing in Mycroft's world of what I am in Sherlock's.

'My brother', Sherlock proceeds bravely, 'favours the nation welfare over any human attachments. The safety of many, at the sacrifice of a few. He keeps the interest of the nation above anything else, you need to concede him that much.'

My expression turns obstinate. 'That may well be, Sherlock, but now he's asked for our help, we will make new rules.'

Mycroft's little brother nods, we stand on the same side of the barricade. 'It's my case now, John', Sherlock states, with a dangerous smile.

_Forget it, Sherlock. It's __our__ case._

_**.**_

As soon as we enter the dark, pricey car that Mycroft has sent around for us to use – out of his fleet of about half a dozen of these cars, all alike; one for each day of the week, I presume – Sherlock dismisses the driver and insists the man gets out on the street and stand there while we take control of the vehicle. This is our case, now, and we're doing it our way.

'Mr Holmes would like to know where you'll be going', the driver dares to ask.

Already sat at the wheel, Sherlock rolls his eyes as he looks out across my window to the man left on the pavement.

'Mr Holmes can follow the GPS signal you activated before getting here', Sherlock snaps back.

'Mr Holmes insisted I'd remind you there is a picnic in the car boot.'

Sherlock smirks. _What...? _I don't get it. Ignoring Mycroft's chauffeur (and probably secret services as all of Mycroft's staff), Sherlock explains: 'It's a pathetic attempt at doubling the innocuous perception of our code. Mycroft is getting paranoid now. He means to say there are firearms for us in the back of the car. Well, when I say "us"... I'll let you get first pick, John.'

And that's the "picnic"... Fine, by me. My faithful Browning was getting rather lonely by now.

'Mr Holmes...?' the driver insists. For some weird condescendence, Sherlock gives the man an address. Judging by the agent's honest reaction, it's not a good part of the city or one you'd expect to be seen infiltrating in a posh suit. _Sherlock's the one in a posh suit, I tend to blend in more easily._

My mad friend hits the accelerator and cheekily waves the man goodbye with his hand out of the window. 'Sherlock...' I start, lowering my voice. 'Should we go in this car? We're going to rescue Anthea and extract her from her kidnappers. A car that is a blend between a limousine and a reinforced steel carriage is a very flashy way to get there, and it's easy enough to trace it back to us and Baker Street. Shouldn't we... I don't know, get out a few blocks earlier and walk the rest?'

Sherlock seems genuinely amused by my attempt at being some sort of reasonable private eye. 'No, John. By the end of our visit I expect Anthea to be free of her threat, and her kidnappers to remember us only too vividly.'

The detective's words are like promised war, and I let them fire me up and tingle in the back of my mind. Whomever said Sherlock was a cold sociopath has never seen him on revenge mode. This is the Sherlock who hails wars in his passing, who is a fleeting dark angel of doom, who once roamed the Earth to squash down the remnants of Moriarty's web of crime.

One thing can be said about the Holmeses. They are loyal to few, but with such deep fierceness that is both mesmerising and frightening.

'Oaky', I say, gulping drily and looking out of the window to the deserted streets and random passing cars. I'm starting to feel paranoid myself, as we're hopping into danger blind-sighted. _What if this is a trap? What if we are the intended target all along? _'How did you find Anthea? How do you know about this place?'

'Nanoparticles', Sherlock states simply.

I blink, not following. 'What about them?'

'Dissolved in Anthea's morning coffee, every day. Emitting a small specific radio frequency. I admit it's a bit old school, but—' He notices my scandalised stance and rebuts, at once: 'Don't be like that! It was either that or microchiping her. And unlike you, John, she wouldn't have refused!'

I shake my head and bite my lip so not to answer, because I don't trust myself right now not to shout at this particular Holmes next to me.

'The electromagnetic signal', he proceeds, ignoring my expression, 'disappeared a few hours ago, so we need to assume her kidnappers know about the nanoparticles and did something to jam the signal.'

I squint. 'Or they've all just got flushed out of her system. It's almost morning. She'd be ready for another dose on her morning coffee.'

Sherlock glances at me without responding, and it rings odd. It's not like such a down-to-earth obvious deduction wouldn't have crossed his mind.

'What's the protocol for after the 24 hours emitters are gone, Sherlock?'

He looks away, faking interest in the near to nothing traffic. 'Security measure. The person is given up as lost. Mycroft's men are ordered to get back and give up.'

'And if she would turn up on her own?' I ask, fearing the worst.

'She'd be considered compromised, and a target. She'd have to go through deep screening and retraining. Still, she'd be demoted, considered tainted and untrustworthy. She might end up being a receptionist at best... I don't want that for Mycroft', Sherlock confesses in a surprisingly open moment. 'We must consider that the intended target in Anthea's disappearance is actually my brother, by removing a trusted ally from his side.'

'Eroding Mycroft from the inside', I understand. _It's a sophisticated possibility, definitely worth looking into._

Sherlock glances at me and adds: 'The location we're heading to is of little insight as to the reason behind this kidnap or the motivation, and we must not jump to conclusions without enough facts.'

'We're not sitting around waiting for a ransom note', I point out, fisting my hands and aching for a fight.

'Definitely not', Sherlock seconds me. 'We're arriving shortly at the old industrial complex where Anthea's signal was last spotted.'

'What sort of industry is it?'

Sherlock seems annoyed by my question. 'Some food industry of some sort; does it matter?' he snaps. 'Here!' he grabs his phone and hands it to me, unlocked. I look down on the lit screen as he describes. 'Those are the blueprints of the structure, memorise them. We're already here, John.'

As soon as he's handed me his phone he's now taking it away, and that was not nearly enough time. 'Sherlock!' I protest.

'You really need to train your memory skills', he comments honestly like a man taking a mental note, but he won't return his phone, decided on not wasting time. 'You'll be fine! All these buildings are essentially constructed the same!'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	182. Chapter 182

_A/N: **Part three** of however many. Apologies for the delay. My mind has drifted off to a different plotline, where it got stuck as well. This usually happens when I'm pumped up to write and I'm forced by real life not to. The story__ then__ gets clogged up and it's hard to kick start the engine again. Call it a "writer's block" if you will, only I'm not a writer. Or British. Not even a goldfish. –csf_

* * *

**_._**

Morning has broken beyond the dismayed silhouette of a derelict industrial building. A passerby wouldn't pay much attention to this site, except to frown upon it and call for a city council project to develop it. Most certainly the unsuspecting audience would fail to recognise this place as a stronghold for a surprise underground upheaval directed at Sherlock's influential brother.

_That's where they went wrong; they messed up with a Holmes. That's why I'm here._

Mycroft Holmes and I might not always have seen eye to eye, but Anthea's disappearance goes beyond the strained ties of our friendship. Or _mutual_ _acquaintance_, if Mycroft would admit to that much. As I see it, Anthea is someone to be helped because she is in trouble. Anthea is also part of the older Holmes team and I can recognise in Mycroft the same impulse of loyalty that I've always observed in me in my brief time at the army. _You just don't leave your own behind._ And no matter how much it irks me right now not to have Mycroft meddling among Sherlock and I – although a sensible part of me is genuinely relieved he's not here – I can accept that in the war sometimes we need to trust an ally to prompt the rescue mission for us while we divert the attentions from the enemy on the ground.

This is why Sherlock and I are crouching by the barbwire fence that surrounds the rundown property. Two clandestine marksmen sent to clean someone else's mess.

_It's not something I haven't done before._

It takes me a couple of minutes to realise that while my full attention is on the lonely tarmac road leading to the main entrance of the factory, Sherlock's is directed at the military trained man by his side.

'What?' I frown, feeling him _strange_. As I look him closely, his light coloured eyes are stormy and agitated.

'Nothing', he diverges, unbelievably.

'Seriously, Sherlock?' I snap, curt. 'We're about to go in there to risk our lives and you are keeping secrets from me?'

A small smirk grows sideways on my mad friend's expression. Then I realise my mistake. He's ready to deduce me just to avoid opening up on whatever emotion I caught on him. _His deductions being used as a weapon in our argument._

'You like this', he tells me. Better yet, he _observes_. Sherlock can easily identify the trepidation growing restlessly in the soldier by his side. I thrive on this danger and he's known it from the day we met. He can, better than anyone, identify the captain Watson stance that surfaced like a second nature. Fluid, natural, intoxicating.

I smirk back. 'No one said I couldn't have some fun...' I point out with a broad smile. Much to my surprise, Sherlock doesn't copy my smile. If anything, I recognise apprehension and cautiousness in my friend. As if he's afraid I'll risk too much. Usually Sherlock is as mad as I am. Unlike his older brother, fieldwork is fulfilling and an enticement to him as it is to me. Why on earth is he now reacting so unlike himself, sensible and worried, is beyond me. As unnatural and contrived as I find it, it only firms my belief that I must shrug this probably erroneous impression to the back of my mind.

'This is serious, John', he tells me; uselessly in my opinion. 'The safety of the entire nation may be dependent on what we accomplish here in the next few hours.'

Finally reading in my expression equal seriousness and devotion to the mission, Sherlock's expression changes. It becomes vibrant and so much alive. It's both electrifying and mesmerising, a metaphor on danger itself as if to attract this former soldier. _Don't overdo it, Sherlock. I said you can count me in already!_

Unless it's not an act but Sherlock finally giving himself permission to overflow this dangerous energy as well, so alike the consulting detective I've met in those first months as flatmates. The one he started holding back every so often, months later, much to my dismay.

I can't help but notice he's wide awake despite this being the early hours of the morning, after a not so complete night's sleep. Well, I suppose it helps how much he unhealthily trained his body to go on for days without proper sleep.

'Look, Sherlock, if were going to be doing this', I start, trying to be the reasonable one, supported by the short years gap between us and Sherlock's new irresponsible streak. _It's a delicate balance of equilibrium, our partnership._ I grab him by the arm and make him listen: 'We only have Mycroft's word that Anthea got kidnapped.'

'My brother is not one to make trifle mistakes, John', Sherlock snaps impatiently.

I shake my head. 'I can tell you know more than I do.' He nods carelessly, resigned, as if in a silent complaint that it's always the case... 'Care to enlighten me?' I press my friend. In love with awing the world, Sherlock is always one to keep his cards close and then perform magic tricks. 'Sherlock, you actually told Mycroft you'd share all the information with me...' The detective quirks an eyebrow, I sigh dramatically. 'Yes, of course I know it was a power play. There's a reason I didn't call you out on your practical lie, and I know strategy games being played when I see them...'

'Well, then...' he accepts calmly, using my words against me.

_The cheeky git._

'I see...' I shrug and cross my arms in front of me. 'I could always excuse myself from the case, you know?'

Sherlock's eyes narrow considerably as he takes in my bluff. 'Fine', he concedes at last, like he must have wanted to do all along. I can sense his reservations were not directed at my curiosity, instead aimed at protecting his brother's privacy. 'Fine, I'll tell you. Soon. Not all, but enough.'

I shrug. I really didn't expect more. It's a battle won right here, as far as I'm concerned.

Sherlock looks over my shoulder and tenses himself, as a wild animal readying himself for a chase. I glance over my shoulder at what he saw, instinctively taking my hand over to my back, where my gun hangs faithfully waiting.

'What is it, Sherlock?'

'Our ride is here, John. This is how we're infiltrating the factory.'

_Oh._ A small truck is coming up the road. Sherlock and I still ourselves, secure in the mild shadows at day break that keep us minimally camouflaged.

For all I wanted – or needed – to storm in on the factory and get our abducted goldfish out, by force if necessary, Sherlock is taking a more sensible approach. It's too early to let ourselves be known here. The kidnappers could panic and move out the target or, worse even, hurt her.

As Sherlock raises himself to a stealthy crouch as the truck passes us by and slows down at the industry's gate, I follow my friend as a faithful shadow. Respectfully I let him take the lead and fulfil more of a subordinate role myself. It doesn't feel odd, not even for a former army captain. I trust Sherlock as I trust myself, and I'll always follow his lead because I know he's got my back in a real, pure, solid bond. I'll never doubt his leadership, such as I know that when I bark out the orders – on those rare instances – he's willing to follow me to the deep end as well.

At the back of the standing still truck, Sherlock assaults the padlock on those double doors in record time, using thin files while I keep an eye out on the landscape, gun drawn in my hand, raised to shoulder height. In two seconds, if that much, the inoffensive click pronounces the lock's surrender and Sherlock opens wide the back door and climbs in. The engine restarts up ahead as the gates are now fully open to allow the truck into the property. Sherlock holds out an outstretched hand for me to take. Hands connect together, his sensitive long fingered snaking around my calloused skin, smaller one. I anchor my boot on the truck's metal frame and hoister myself up as the vehicle is already rolling again.

As soon as I stagger into the empty back of the truck, Sherlock nearly closes the door shut, allowing only a minimal crack open for us to witness our arrival.

The truck picks up speed on the main road to the factory, then slows down as it turns to the back of the building.

Sherlock's all attentive eyes narrow and he directs me by the mere expedient of laying a hand on my shoulder. Again he holds the door open for me as I jump off the moving vehicle to the dirt ground we're crossing. He follows me with elegance in his fluid movements and equal stealth, and our exit is carried out successfully in a virtually silent way. We haste towards the long brick wall of the factory. Gun still in hand while Sherlock keeps a healthy lookout, I venture to take a sneak peek into the factory through the dirty cracked window.

The inside space is pitch black and ominously quiet. It takes me a few dangerous seconds to get my eyes accustomed to the dark and to start gathering an impression of shapes and long horizontal lines of conveyor belts and long tables. Knowing this is the dangerous bit, for it's easy for someone inside to notice the silhouette of my head at the window looking in and the movements approaching and leaving should be notorious to anyone inside, I squint in a desperate attempt to maximize what I can recognise from the shapes, and memorize it to report back to Sherlock.

My friend taps me on the shoulder, signifying my time is up. Together we move away towards a small shaggy shrubs area that can conceal us while we confer in tight whispers.

'Two levels, open space in the middle. A conveyor belt connects the two levels, it's wide and sturdy. Meat hooks clamped from the ceiling at the top floor, some thick canvas bags hanging but no unsanitary abandoned carcasses. The ground floor holds the big machinery, and a packaging area, I think. Hm... Lots of boxes, empty boxes, piled up. At the far end, on the right, a massive walk-in fridge', I report, as succinctly as I can, of what I saw on enemy ground.

'Guards? _Enemies_?' He particularises, knowing I favour war analogies when in action.

'No one in sight. They must be at the back, receiving the lorry.'

Sherlock is not appeased by the news. He knows the vehicle arrived with signs of our break in, and that alone can raise the alarm. And, of course, in all of this, we still don't have visual confirmation on Anthea, our target to recover.

'We can go in, Sherlock, through the front. Bypass them and explore the area before they are done at the back.'

He nods curtly, for a moment inverting our positions and naturally accepting me to take a temporary lead.

We thread in light footsteps towards the front of the building, etched against the brick walls. Midway I notice Sherlock taking his phone our of his pocket and glancing down at the lit screen. 'Mycroft', he mouths at me, seeing my gaze grow concerned.

I hope this is a sign that the older Holmes really cares.

Sherlock puts his phone away without reply. For once he's got a good reason to impose the silent treatment on Mycroft. _We really are a bit busy here._

Next thing, I feel my own phone buzz in my pocket. I ignore it altogether.

Reaching the front entrance of the rundown factory, Sherlock and I slip in through a conveniently left ajar door.

'Sherlock...' I call him, tensely.

He glances at me and nods. Then, mimicking me, he takes a gun into his hand, ready to defend us.

It looks alien on him, but I take what I can get. I know he can shoot a handgun – Mrs Hudson's wallpaper still bears the lead hard evidence, and let's not go over the topic of blackmailing napoleons of crime, please – _if_ he's pressed to do it. My friend the consulting detective is usually a man of the mind, but even he knows a gun can settle an argument with unequivocal results.

'Be careful', I find myself asking him.

He hums, not agreeing verbally but also not dismissing my need to voice the obvious. I'd bet he's as apprehensive as me. We're diving into a foreign territory, and these guns are hardly an established advantage. We're risking our lives on this mission.

_Mycroft owes us big time._

'Where is she?' I ask tightly to my all knowing friend.

He glances at me as if the answer was obvious. I try to think back fast but I can't get it. Raising a brow I demand an explicit answer out of my genius friend. He purses his lips as if I was being stubborn or too lazy to think like he did, but he won't deny telling me this:

'The nanoparticles, John! Either they are flushed out of Anthea's system entirely with no residue left behind, as one would not expect for another couple of hours, or its signal can't be transmitted due to the nature of the place where she's being held...'

'The walk-in fridge!' I understand at once. The thick insulating walls designed to keep the low temperatures within are jamming the nanoparticles signal. 'That's one for Mycroft's lab coat people to think about!'

'Indeed. Given the unorganized level of kidnap we're facing here, I'd say the abducters are crude, uneducated people who got very lucky and used the fridge opportunistically.'

'My goodness', my heart skips a beat, 'if Anthea has been in that fridge all this time...'

'Crude and cruel', Sherlock comments casually. 'Not a good combination.'

We're inside the eerily abandoned factory, having to cross almost all of its extension in order to reach the refrigerator unit at the back. All this while, the kidnappers are about to come back in and out in the factory's open space they'll find us at once. We have little to no hiding places, and none at all if we want to keep moving along the way.

Sherlock acts like he's again reading my mind as he tells me, generously: 'I can create a diversion if you go get Anthea.'

'Too dangerous!' I try to reject the idea.

'Don't have a choice!' he confides angrily. 'If Anthea doubts you, tell her the code words; it's... Forget it', Sherlock changes hid mind suddenly, shaking his head. _Doesn't he trust me with the information?_

'Tell me!'

'No need. She'll trust _you_, John', he replies innocently, full of faith and _– is it really? –_ a kind smile.

'Sherlock!' I hiss.

He rolls his eyes but caves in. 'Fine, tell her you are here for a goldfish, it's easier.'

'Easier than what?'

He throws me a dark look and recites by memory: '"The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain."'

I blink. _You've got to be kidding me! _Sherlock looks all the crankier by my reaction.

Anyway, it figures Mycroft would choose an educational line related to his favourite appendage: umbrellas.

'Fine, "goldfish" it is...' I accept reluctantly and Sherlock nods sharply. Immediately he veers off into a new direction, towards the big machinery that activates the conveyor belt. He's all set to provoke chaos while I rescue the goldfish, but he can't stall them indefinitely. _I must hurry._

I run with light footsteps the rest of the way towards the back, leading up to the goods entrance's parking lot and I bolt those doors shut. As I double back I can hear the doors tremble as the men outside are catching up with the mischievousness in here. I halt by the thick metal doors of the walk-in fridge and pull a faithfull army knife out of my boot. Putting away my gun on the belt under my jacket I take the knife to the lock and jam it straight over the bolt. Slowly, with the precision of a surgeon, I twist the blade and pull back the internal lock mechanism till I can open the door. _There._ Who needs Spectacular when Steady will do?

Loud bangs on the back door tell me this is no time to gloat. _They are onto us._

At the same time, the mechanical cranks of the industrial machinery cut the thick silence indoors as Sherlock takes hold of the mechanical beat in here.

'Anthea?' I call out, as I pull the door back to open it.

I'm almost hit by a heavy object, but I manage to twist myself out of the way in the last second. Then she freezes, reflexively, as she recognises me.

Anthea. Slightly dishevelled, dark eyes a bit haunted, but overall _unharmed_.

'Hi', I say calmly, gently, as our gazes cross. 'The rain in Spain... Oh, darn it, it's too silly to say!' I protest, rubbing my back muscles. I think I pulled something while twisting away from her well aimed timely swing of a perceived threat.

'Doctor Watson?' She blinks, incredulous for a second, business-like the next. No smile, no "thank you", no "how have you been?"...

'Wanna get out of here?' I tease.

She shakes her head in a very serious conviction. For the first time I read something in her young features, betraying only very superficially that she is deeply terrified.

With a short jog Sherlock is by our side at once, and immediately he can tell in my stance that something is wrong. _I'm not as victorious as he'd expect, I suppose._

'Anthea?'

She faces us both. 'I can't go. There's a trap.' As she predicts my reasonable defence of her protection, she cuts me off: 'Not here, the trap is not here. Mr Holmes is in deep danger. If they find I escaped they'll get spooked and he'll be killed. You must go and I must stay.'

'There's a price to your staying.' Sherlock's fair warning reminds me the time is counting down for Anthea.

She nods, bravely. _So be it._

Sherlock knows, rationally, of her understanding of the consequences to her actions and senses fluently the deep undertones of her loyalty. _But he won't have it._ Her selfless sacrifice is stupid as far as he's concerned. 'We won't leave you here at the hands of these men', Sherlock says out loud. There's a quiet desperation surging in his deep voice that pains me to hear.

'If you don't, Mycroft Holmes is a dead man', Anthea tells us with such full honesty, impossible to fake.

Sherlock and I share a deep look, in what feels like a shrilling, synchronised moment.

**_._**

**_TBC_**


	183. Chapter 183

_A/N: **Part four** of however many in the old "missing goldfish" case.  
__Hm... Have a nice weekend. -csf_

* * *

**_._**

_We can't stay._

_We can't leave._

There is no straightforward answer, at least not one that an old soldier can think of in the heat of the moment and, by the looks of it, none that Sherlock can grasp either. Of course we must cut some slack to the genius, the news that our actions will directly influence Mycroft's safety halfway across London has taken us both by surprise. Sherlock's hit the hardest. This is his brother, after all. No matter the secular bickering and rivalry between the two Holmes I sense easily that it is, in reality, no more than an old kneejerk reaction and a cautious façade they've grown used to putting on for the rest of the world to see. It protects them as much as their carefully crafted persona of insensitive sociopathy. And sure they have enough friction between them to light up a 100 watts bulb, like two siblings would - just look at me and Harry for an example - but it cannot erode a deep bond of trust and dependency that connects the two Holmes through thick and thin.

In the few years I've known Sherlock I can count by the fingers in one hand the number of times my friend has asked Mycroft for help. These reverse circumstances - Mycroft reaching out for Sherlock's help - is something common sense assures me has happened, yet I have no knowledge of.

As much as Sherlock is my best friend, he nevertheless keeps some secrets from me. My knowledge of his past is sketchy, I have only had glimpses into his wild youth years, he purposely manipulates my understanding of his smoking and quitting patterns. When it comes to his brother, Sherlock displays one of the bravest and most beautiful traits of personality: his loyalty. He has reserved to himself the knowledge of those times he's helped Mycroft since we met. Out of decency, I've restrained my curiosity; I have not asked him about them. I assume naturally he'd evade an answer, protecting Mycroft in their tightknit Holmes unit.

Something has changed, though, as this time Sherlock has brought me into the loop. Essentially he has asked for my help in order to help Mycroft. _I would never refuse._ Perhaps Sherlock has sensed he needed my help this time. Or he prefered to have me around in what is essentially a legwork filled case. It is possible he just wanted to annoy Mycroft, as well.

Now the tables turn in an unexpected direction. Mycroft is in danger and that's a game changer. I can sense the nervous vibrancy coursing through my friend as he tries to steady himself, to harness his coldblooded reasoning: his best shot at keeping Mycroft safe despite the high level of threat.

'Isn't there anyone you can alert? Is there a protocol to activate, Sherlock? His men sweep in and force him into safety?' I wonder, mystified. Only trying to help. 'I'm sure you can call him and warn him over the phone!'

Anthea shakes her head vehemently at that, almost ready to grab the phone off our hands. 'There's a foreign diplomat, he's a double agent. He'll be standing by Mr Holmes' side at all times. If he suspects anything, he'll act.'

'Maybe some coded words, Sherlock?' I press my friend, while giving Anthea a more clinical eye. She hasn't complained but her discomfort is throughout evident in her features and it mustn't be due only to our predicament. 'Like the rain in Spain thing?' I hint at the detective while undressing my black jacket. Fluidly I wrap it around Anthea's smaller frame, not accepting her predictable feeble protests. The walk-in refrigerator for a prolonged period of time doesn't necessarily reach the temperatures to risk hypothermia but she still needs immediate attention and a medical check-up wouldn't go amiss.

Sherlock looks lost, as if nothing of the sort has ever been planned between the two men, and his mind is too overcastted by emotion to pick something up now.

Anthea measures me carefully before snuggling deeper into the jacket around her, appreciatively. I get the feeling she's used to working alone, and my offer has come as a surprise.

'We can't risk it. Mr Holmes is too valuable. I'll stay here. As long as I'm here you have a chance of alerting him in time. You must go.'

Sherlock shakes his head vigorously, like a man with too many thoughts filling his head at once. Clashing, colliding, multiplying in a starburst of fresh new lines of thought, too many at once and he refuses to let go of any of them.

_If what I'm witnessing is mirrored in a tenth of its intensity if he ever finds out I'm in danger, than I'll be humbled by this proud and beautiful display of friendship, care and human connection._

No, this is not about me, and I too bear a responsibility in finding us an answer.

_Perhaps I knew the answer all along, as a former army captain._

'No, John, there is no safe way to convey a message without risking endangering my brother. If the wrong people get wind that we're onto their plan they'll kill Mycroft, you heard Anthea. _I won't risk that._'

He fixes his light free eyes on me with mad desperation and intensity. I can read his silent dialogues easily. _Tell me it's logical, not just biased emotions, John._

I sigh. 'No, we're never risking Mycroft, Sherlock. I'd never suggest that.'

He smirks bitterly. 'There's a difference between the two of you', he comments. I can sense he's speaking freely, no real bite to his words. _He too sides with me on this_, even if his older brother would have insisted he'd rationally weight out every possible scenario.

'And we're not leaving Anthea to be sacrificed to these guys', I add.

'Obviously', Sherlock agrees with me in the same breath. Anthea remains beautifully controlled and poised between us. And cleverly silent too. But time is running out as we stand here.

Finally Sherlock reads into my stone-hard look and almost gasps and flinches as a result. I can see his green eyes growing stormier, less in control.

'We need to split up', I say out loud the simple words that mask out the tough call.

Sherlock hums, less than impressed. I carry on, bravely, not used to being the one laying out the plan of action.

'Someone is needed here, to get Anthea to safety, and another one of us is needed to reach Mycroft and forewarn him, if not actively protect him.'

'Mr Holmes is at an embassy at the moment', Anthea provides at once, invested that one of us goes save her boss at once. I glance suspiciously her way. She holds her ground firmly, with ease. 'I know Mr Holmes' schedule, I'm his PA, doctor Watson.'

'Shouldn't he be safe at an embassy? International reputations and all that?'

'Not if the embassy is not part of the Commonwealth countries, I wouldn't think it. In an embassy the reigning law is that of the country it represents, not the country where it stands.'

'Murder is murder anywhere', I add in good sense.

'Yes, but our preventing it becomes much less of a straightforward matter in an embassy', she reminds me directly.

I look over at Sherlock. All posh and intellectually gifted, this is his mission. Add to that the fact that this is Mycroft we're trying to reach and Mycroft would easily distrust my story but he'll hear his brother, it's clear Sherlock must leave at once, while Anthea and I stay behind to cover his tracks.

'John...' he pronounces my name and nothing more, as if it was a bit painful to leave me behind in action, but soon he collects himself and nods dutifully.

_Loyalty to a different person superimposing logically._ My friend has reasoned through his personal storms and in his raging maelstrom he has anchored himself in logic and reason to keep him in the right course. He must abandon me now, in possible danger, to reach his brother, in definite need for protection.

I notice in the back of my mind that Sherlock doesn't doubt Anthea or her inside knowledge, not for a second. He respects her loyalty to Mycroft more than he cares for her motives or nature. I find beautiful the strength of this silent personal assistant, never in highlight but a fundamental pillar that Sherlock recognises and trusts. Ignored in the everyday life to a mere functionality, she shines now in a moment of difficulty and her young years of faithful service are rewarded with immediate trust.

I find myself smiling. Maybe it's because my mad unsociable friend is capable of such an incredible and instinctive human connection, it makes me proud. Sherlock has an incredible mind and a warm heart, and I'm proud to have him as my best friend.

**_._**

Before we can separate and fulfil two distinct ends of the same case, we need to resolve together the small problem of Sherlock's exit from this factory unit. Preferably without giving away the knowledge that Anthea is no longer an unwilling prisoner and of my presence about. We'd much prefer to keep hold of our advantages close by.

And this evasion plan for one is something that will be addressed by the three of us.

'Where are they now, John?'

Funny, that Sherlock interrupts my quiet thoughts with a hard direct question aimed at this former soldier. Funnier, that the answer springs to my mind automatically, as if I can't ever stop being alert, reactive, recording battle facts on the back of my mind.

'Two at the front. Four at the back... I think', I add, maybe for humbleness sake, maybe because I'm doubting my own recollection of sounds of footsteps, fleeting shadows at the window and the wandering smell of cigarettes.

Sherlock nods, curtly. He does not doubt my instinctive alertness. 'I'll leave through the front, then. You two can go in to the walk-in refrigerator unit, now the lock is busted it's safer in there.'

I take my hand to my belt as I tell my friend: 'Two things, Sherlock.'

He frowns, suspicious. 'John?'

'_One_. Take my gun. It's dangerous and you'll need it.'

'No. What else?' he replies defiantly, yet I can only read concern in his expression.

'_Two_. We'll get you out. There's no way you're shooting your way out of here. This is not an old western on the telly.'

'I'm not even taking your gun!' he hisses in an exasperated protest. I know him better than that.

'Even without a gun, the point still stands. You are not going out there alone, trying to take out as many as you can.'

He tilts his head in a silent challenge. I add, knowingly:

'We are all doing that, together. Then Anthea and I will return quietly while you escape unnoticed through the front.'

He stills himself for a long moment. Finally he nods in agreement.

I disguise a sigh of relief. Sherlock tells me it's me; he can't see how stubborn he can be.

**_._**

Simple and childlike. That's the basis of many of our plans. And I accept the implied notion that Sherlock and I are just two overgrown kids enjoying the fun and action in a dangerous case.

This is no exception. The only tension growing in the room comes from something entirely different. I insist Sherlock takes my gun for self-protection; like an extension of my presence given that I can't physically be there to accompany him.

Anthea must stay so that the people who are threatening Mycroft's life don't act upon their murderous intentions prematurely.

'Sherlock... please', I say, with big eyes stuck on his. For a moment I ignore my audience and I focus on no one else but my overly daring friend, in love with risk taking and the dramatic. I realise how this looks. I'm not above begging. It doesn't bother me as much as I thought it should.

'John... I can't', he whispers between the two of us.

'You've fired it before. You know how to use it. You know its kinks.' I forcefully grab his hand and make him turn his palm up in the space between us. Then I deposit my gun in that pale hand, held in place with my rougher, smaller one.

We both look down on it, almost electrified by its presence between us.

Sherlock blurts out, in the same emotional upheaval he's been on since Anthea's ominous declaration: 'I can get you a gun, from the kidnappers. I can get you two or three, then.. '

'No. They are not to know you left', I refuse at once. 'We have a plan', I tell him firmly.

'I worry about you', he gasps before he can help himself.

'Same back at you, you mad bugger', I smirk. 'That's why you need that more than I do... Time is running out, you know the plan. Go and take my gun. Use it if you must. Make sure you're safe.'

He nods, with the same uncharacteristic vulnerability of late, and I wonder _if this is the great Sherlock Holmes when the strings of his brother, the puppet master, are cut_. Does he seriously not see how he is cleverer, braver and stronger than the brother he's spent all his life trying to emulate and surpass?

Sherlock finally takes the gun; slowly, almost reverentially.

'We have a plan', he settles. 'And I'll come back for you.' I nod and purposefully glance at the mechanisms dominating the open space of the derelict building.

Sherlock smirks dangerously. He's read my intentions. Comfortable in the knowledge that my friend acknowledges and accepts our dangerous plan, I watch him turn around abruptly with sort of a swoosh to his long coat and swiftly move away through the rows of working tables.

It's as I lose sight of my friend that I go to the old switch board and with a couple of buttons and a lever, I turn the old conveyor belt on. From then on it's easy. A few items that I have seen on the belt will topple down to the floor by the window. I just speed up the process a little...

With a good swing I smash the window pane by hitting a parcel through it. Glass and object fly over and crash onto the dirt path outside, while shattering the silence and stillness.

Immediately men from the front and back rush to the sudden origin of all chaos.

Inside the factory, Anthea recedes into the walk-in refrigerator unit and I hide behind the machinery cluster.

Sherlock has taught me people always go for the easy solution. Sometimes they are even prepared to overlook how some clues don't fit the overall picture, in their haste to reach a simple, neat solution. So my storyline here was simple and neat. Some short-circuit of the old switchboard has set the line in motion. The first of the pilled up boxes on the belt toppled over, hit the window and crashed it. The next ones are falling on the floor by the window. All due to an electric flaw. _Spooky..._

Somewhere at the front of the factory, Sherlock is dashing off to save his brother's life. He can collect the car and drive off with the accelerator floored and no consideration for speed tickets. He'll save Mycroft's life.

Outside the broken window the suspicious men are readying themselves to conduct an inspection of the factory. Hopefully they won't notice Anthea's more comforted stance, and my hidden presence there as her bodyguard.

**_._**

**_TBC_**


	184. Chapter 184

_A/N: __**Part five**__ of however many in the missing goldfish case._

_I don't think writing action scenes is my forte. Actually... come to think of it, I don't think I have a writing forte at all... Never mind, the deed is done._

_In an unrelated note, I'm scared. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Powerless, I become a silent witness as a new commotion erupts outside. _Sherlock..._

It's been not nearly enough time for Sherlock to have escaped unnoticed. With a deep feeling of dread pooling at my stomach I watch through the dirt smudged windows the kidnappers rush to the front of the building in active pursuit.

_Not in front of me. You don't get to threaten Sherlock in front of me._

Well, if they are making a lot of noise, I guess I'll just have to make some more.

Unremorsefully I pull the fire alarm lever.

The loud, deafening ringing of the fire alarm fills the suddenly made smaller and more claustrophobic factory with a reverberating holler. No chance that it can get ignored. I expect that by now the kidnappers believe they are being attacked from all sides. That's exactly how I want them: disoriented.

Deep down in my heart there's a steady mantra of begging the almighty skies that Sherlock can be far away enough not to be found, and not to hear the fire alarm – or that he can be cold and sociopathic enough not to think of coming back for me.

_Please keep safe, Sherlock. This is all part of my plan._

I can feel the temperature drop as the factory's front doors are opened sudden and forcefully, like an understated call to battle.

No, I must keep hiding – must buy Sherlock time to get away and alert Mycroft – even if the soldier in me is itching for a fight. Even at a tactical disadvantage I'd battle to set things right, if it weren't for the bigger picture. And so I hold back, tense.

This is about giving Sherlock enough time to get down that damned driveway unnoticed, safely. He needs to get far away from here. He needs to tend to his family. Mycroft comes first, he must see that. No matter how much it pained him to have to make a choice between us. I could see it was hard on Sherlock. He promised he'd come back for me. The urgency of the return was implied. Sherlock won't make promises he can't keep and this rare promise was a one-of desperate wishful thinking if I ever heard one, contradicting his core role.

Sherlock was frazzled; I could almost visually see my friend disintegrate under the strain of his divided loyalties he had to pick and choose from. It was a lose-lose situation if I ever saw one. I could almost audibly hear him berating himself for not being more genial, more daring, more creative in coming up with an alternative plan that got us – all – safe.

_My friend often forgets he's only human._

He also disregards the fact that I was once a soldier. He must now trust that I can hold my ground on my own.

I know he does. We're just so used to sustaining this constant concern for each other whenever we're apart. We're a tight-knit unit; the detective and the blogger. I've learnt to put my life in his hands without hesitation, to trust his genius judgement above mine in some instances, to read in him the mirrored turmoil of my own emotions. The way our synergy works is – like all Sherlock related things – all absorbing, and I gladly give him so much of my own self in order to feed our partnership that it's borderline unhealthy. Even when Sherlock is not physically present, I've grown used to keeping him in the back of my mind.

This forced separation is painful on the both of us.

I'm not blaming Anthea but I wish I could be elsewhere, shadowing the footsteps of a mad detective with an eye for danger and trouble, right now. Not cowardly hiding and waiting behind piles of boxes in here.

I think I've just wound myself up even further. I'm really itching for a fight right now.

As the bulky brainless men come storming back into the factory with mystified, puzzled expressions, I take off in a run from my hideout. Stepping into plain sight, goading them along. I'm spotted at once then the real chase begins. _That should keep their focus off Anthea as well._ I rush to the inner staircase that leads to the upper floor mezzanine and so do they.

The first gunfire comes threateningly at my direction, but it lacks focus and aim. _They shoot like my grandmother._ I will not be deterred by drunken gunshots. However, is does bring to mind the question of why have I not invested on a bullet-proof vest yet. It's amazing how Sherlock and I haven't gone looking for some two-for-one deal on a bullet-proof vest given our line of work...

The cast iron spiral staircase trembles at our every stomping footstep. As soon as I reach the very end I turn around, grab onto the frame above my head, hoist myself up a bit and violently kick with both legs the man coming up first. Taken by surprise, he's hit squarely on the chest and falls back, losing balance over the staircase balcony and onto the floor below.

That was a nasty fall. One down, six more to go.

I let myself go and fall back to the mezzanine floor, not planning to stick around to welcome his friends. The momentary disorientation of my enemies is little defence so I rush through the upper floor in search of some advantage I can use.

There's nothing there but old machinery and junk. I take a long iron rod from a pile of rubbish and swing it in the air boisterously at the next man coming at me, holding up a ten inch blade knife. It only takes one blow to disarm him and another to tackle him into the rubbish pile, unconscious. Five more to go.

The next guy has got a gun and my only reasonable option is to rid myself of my falling-short metal rod by throwing it his way, grab onto the mezzanine railing and jump onto the angled conveyor belt, where I slide all the way down to the ground floor. The friction under my jeans' fabric is slightly uncomfortable but the dangerous speed with which I'm sliding down is exhilarating. Amazingly, the old structure creaks menacingly under my sudden weight but manages to keep hold of enough integrity for those few seconds.

It could have been fun to watch; those five stooges' gang rushing back down the cast iron staircase after me.

Instead I'm moving to the front doors and trying to force them open, only to understand they have been securely locked. I have no way of getting out.

The fire alarm is still blaringly going off, its sound is so strong it actually muffles the cranks of the machinery. This whole scenario is one of madness, I'm sure.

As the remaining kidnappers know I'm stuck here and take a moment to regroup and combine strategies, I realise _I'm_ _happy_. I'm getting much desired war.

Greg Lestrade once pointed out in full frankness that, no matter the exhilarating vortex of madness that is our genius detective friend, he has observed often that Sherlock has a tranquilising effect on me. He levels my moods, keeps me busy, gives me a focus and something to protect and care for. He gives me, a useless soldier deported home, a _meaning_.

Greg also believes my showing up in Sherlock's life has saved Sherlock from becoming a restless, bored psychopath; but that's just silly.

If our friend Greg Lestrade is right on that first account, that might explain why I'm in a murderous mood as I see almost half-a-dozen men zooming in on the walk-in refrigerator unit where one single woman is being held prisoner.

I halt at last, knowing that they are going to get her to use her as leverage over me.

_I'm itching for a fight, a better one, and this would be a good time for it..._

The unit's chromed door is pried open and soon Anthea is grabbed forcefully by one of the thugs and pulled out, under the constant scrutiny of a gun.

_I wish I had my gun, but Sherlock needed it more than me._

Anthea struggles lightly at the painfully clasped hand over her wrist, but we both know it's useless.

'What do you want?' She opens the hostilities, bravely projecting poise and control. She crosses her gaze with mine for a brief second, sensing how I'm holding up.

_I'm peachy._

The leader of the kidnappers comes forward to meet the small young woman with deep hatred in his eyes. He hastily orders two of his men to cover the polar entrances to the factory, then goes back to staring down Anthea.

Mycroft's brave PA looks back on those cold merciless eyes without flinching. In a sudden brisk movement he strikes her across the face with his open hand, trying to humiliate her. Doesn't accomplish his goal because the young woman recovers instantly by throwing him a good punch that almost knocks him to the floor.

_Making this an all around lovely day for a fight, after all._

I stretch to push a neighbouring tower of piled up boxes over the two other criminals that were about to join in uninvited at fighting a small statured woman in high heels and unarmed. As I see it, they had it coming and my intervention is no disrespect to the tremendous fighter already clutching at the drawn gun with her bare hands and pushing it away from her. As I glance at her, she's effectively adding a few good kicks for variety sake.

One of the fallen bodyguards to the leader is already getting up from the floor. I save him the trouble by getting a choke hold on him. The pressure over the right spot of the trachea is enough to cut the air flow to his brain and his struggle only uses up more oxygen and speeds his blacking out. As soon as he's falling like a bulky heap on the floor, the other thug emerges from the puzzle-like tumbled boxes. I charge on him at once. Two more to go, plus two outside.

He might have been a boxer, I imagine, as he takes an elbowing at the stomach without breaking a sweat. The huge man looks down on me with a lopsided grin and some teeth missing. I roll my eyes to his cockiness and fluidly duck from a punch while kicking his knees to trip him over. He falls like a toppling giant. A well aimed blow over his neck arteries and he's out cold on the floor with temporary cardiac arrhythmia. One more to go.

I waste no time to look up at Anthea, ready to offer her help if needed, just in time to see her wrestle the leader to the ground. She's got him on a choke hold while simultaneously pinning him to the ground with a knee over him and holding one arm behind his back with such force that it might just dislodge it out of its socket. I must admit it's not bad for a tame looking, young, phone-loving personal assistant.

'Call – them – off!' she growls to the man at her mercy, while I search the fallen ones for weapons. I find only the leader's gun. That I take hold off with a frown.

No more weapons. These guys worked on size and brute force alone. I also punch the emergency control panel next to us and halt the miserable fire alarm that was starting to drive me crazy.

I look over at Anthea. She too has been searching for concealed weapons in the man at her feet and found only a small Swiss army knife that she immediately puts to good use as a threat against the man's neck.

'I said: call them off!'

He shakes his head again. 'Can't', he groans. 'It's set in motion now.'

Reading as much honesty as a professional criminal can have, when properly motivated by a pissed off kidnapping victim, I nod at Anthea. Revengefully, she knocks him out with a good elbowing at his head.

I look all around at the quiet devastation in the factory, where we've just littered the floor with unconscious men, who attacked us.

Most of all, as my breathing is starting to even out, I know I've learned a new respect for Anthea as a fellow fighter. Cold-blooded, decisive, confident. I turn to my new friend and smirk.

'Who are you, Anthea?' I ask in pure wonder, and as a response she snaps her head my way, with a touch of fear in her big round eyes. Then clear reasoning takes over, as the fear fades away to a certain amusement, a camaraderie, lifting her gaze.

'Lots of things to different people. Sometimes on command. Mr Holmes once called me "a riddle"...' Then with a smart nod she adds: 'Of all the things I've been called in my life, I prefer by far to be called a riddle, an unsolvable one.'

'Sherlock told me you were secret services.'

'Sort of', she admits. 'But it's not really the same. Also, that's cheating if Mr Holmes' brother told you.' She's still openly smirking at me, letting me know gently that she won't reveal her secrets. I nod, understandingly. Anyway, I know all I need to, already. Anthea is a fellow fighter.

Suddenly we're interrupted by the creaking sound of the front doors opening; the two outside men set on watch are coming back in.

'Here!' I hand Anthea the gun in my hands. If she's half as lethal and trigger-happy as I've learnt to expect from Mycroft's field teams than this should be a piece of cake. It's Anthea's turn to regain a voice and to fight our way out of here.

Anthea takes the gun in her slender, soft hands and holds it up like a professional. She cocks the gun with a frown.

'You capped the safety _on_, doctor Watson?' she realises.

I shrug. 'Call me John', I volunteer in a tight whisper. 'I'm a lazy doctor, I suspect. Don't like to get myself extra work load if I can avoid it.' With a gesture I hint at all of the fallen ones already.

'They're our enemies!'

'They're human', I cut her off at once. Then, more reasonably: 'Doesn't mean I wouldn't shoot them first if that stopped them from killing us.'

'You'll shoot first and bandage afterwards?' There's a fun light sparkling in her brown eyes. 'I'm not sure which one of those two pisses them off the most...'

'Exactly.' I smirk as well, but it's forced. Anyway, the time for bonding and camaraderie has long past. If we are to succeed in getting out of here and helping Sherlock save Mycroft, we need to act fast.

Again I feel the metaphorical weight load over my shoulders deepen as I realise I must stay behind to give Anthea the best chances to escape.

'Go now', I tell her abruptly. 'Go past the open front doors. I'll keep them busy in here.'

She frowns, taken back. 'What?'

'I'll take the heat. Just leave to save yourself, to save Mycroft Holmes, to save the goldfish, or all of the above.'

'No, the goldfish is—' She stops herself then. 'John, is that selflessness or a death wish?' she hisses at me, almost angrily.

'Sherlock will come to help me. I'll hold my own till he comes.'

She blinks and considers it for a few seconds. Then, calm and collected, she gets up coolly and starts noiselessly walking towards the exit. I press my lips thin. _It's all down to me again._

_**.**_

I come to full use of all my senses some time later. My arms are stretched to a painful point and my left shoulder screams in agony. Therefore it takes me a few more seconds before I realise that I'm being held from above, my feet loosely a few inches off the ground. More specifically, I gather as things around me come to a better focus, I'm hanging from one of those meat hooks I saw earlier, by my restrained wrists. As if that wasn't enough, my ankles are also tightly bound together. They sure made their best effort at keeping me as harmless as possible.

A small twitch by my side startles me and I whip my head to catch a glimpse of that movement. A gut twist accompanies the moment I realise I'm not alone in my predicament. Alongside me, bound and hanging in the same manner, is Anthea. As we look over each other I see a clarity and control in her expression that indicates that she's been awake longer than me, or even the whole time. _As if they sense me as a bigger threat; well, I can make sure of that._

Anthea gaze carefully roams over my frame and back to my face. I give her my best carefree smile but, somehow, she's less than impressed. Maybe she could read the pain I unguardedly displayed on my face before waking up. It's all gone now, that fickle moment of weakness, pushed deep down to my core, from where I don't intend to let it escape again. I'm a soldier, I soldier on. And right now, my full worry lies with the brave woman who stands by my side, facing relentless challenges, one after the other, who shows a moral fibre in her loyalty towards Mycroft that can only place her in a heroism league of her own.

'Hm...' I clear my throat with some awkwardness. 'Don't you just _hate_ it when the team that comes to save you gets tied up and hanged from the meat hook next to yours?' I even roll my eyes for added emphasis. Just as I hoped, Anthea fights back just the tiniest hint of a smile. _That's a success in my book._

'John, how are you?' she asks me, a touch more human. If we are to go through this, if we are to survive this, we need to keep steady. None of that no-emotions nonsense imported from the Holmes we both respect and admire. Both Sherlock and Mycroft know little to nothing of the practical experience, I suspect. Rationality alone is not a saving grace when kidnapped and on a count-down. Keeping steady involves maintaining hope and humour.

_Trust me, I know what I'm doing here, Anthea._

I draw on Sherlock for a different inspiration to answer the PA: 'Bored. Like my mad flatmate says often, "I'm bored".'

She fakes a brave smile.

'You got caught because of me, John.'

'Yes', I agree calmly. There's no point in denying it. _I'm in this by her side._

'John, that was against every rule in the operational manual. If you were one of Mr Homes' operational agents he would have sacked you without a moment's notice.'

'Yeah, well, I refused to take his jobs offers so far, so I'm not concerned.'

Her voice lowers to almost a whisper: 'Why did you sacrifice yourself for me?'

I smile at my new friend. 'Because we're in this together, Anthea... I don't stand up a lady', I add, to lighten the mood.

She blinks in response. Not charmed at all, she actually tells me: 'I believe that. Thank you, John.'

'You're welcome', I return politely. _I'd shrug as if nothing much, but I really can't from this uncomfortable position._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	185. Chapter 185

_A/N: __**Part six**__ of however many, still ongoing. This is the missing goldfish case. -csf_

_Tense times lie ahead; hopefully I managed to focus enough to make any sense when writing this. Apologies in advance if not. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

The goldfish almost made it out of the fish bowl. I mean this temporary fish bowl. That is more accurately a prison. The one that holds Anthea against her will for the past twelve hours. This isn't about finding Nemo and getting Nemo home. That's a cultural reference and, as such, is utterly lost on both Holmes brothers. Whatever the origins of their obscure coded names, where they come up with terms such as "goldfish", it never really branches into animation films for kids.

That this disused factory where we're being held – _held _against our will and _held_ from ceiling hooks – was once fish products factory (I've only recently realised) is one of those ironic life coincidences as far as I'm concerned.

What I once thought were meat hooks and the walk-in refrigerator that housed Anthea during the night were in reality once devoted to the early stages of prepping and sorting fish. Not _goldfish_, though. In that sense, a pet store would have been more to the point, I expect.

The short memory span, slow-witted, peaceful uneventful lives, pet creature is a much better metaphor for the older Holmes to come up with than a tuna or a haddock. _See, this is where the trouble lies._ For all his high level security measures, secret coded phrases, GPS tracking nanoparticles protein shakes and all that nonsense, it would actually been easier if Sherlock could have _just phoned Mycroft and told him._

Nothing in my life can ever be easy when there's a Holmes in the vicinity; I learnt that very fast.

_Wouldn't have it ever to change either._

It's from a powerless, vulnerable position that we watch the kidnappers regroup and bounce back after Anthea's failed attempt to break free.

I follow their movements with a keen eye. Being a soldier I can just about anticipate their actions and judge their effectiveness. I can tell they are getting ready for their big target. An electrifying buzzing energy surrounds the motivated thugs, their moves are coordinated as a team, even if tense and hasted. The deadline is getting nearer. Their last night has been spent preparing for this action, and it's big.

Not that I'm partaking in the excitement for this hostile action taking place.

I feel secretly gutted and I keep my wits about me only enough to fake a self-assurance I don't necessarily fee. I don't want Anthea worrying too much. Even if I know that Anthea, cool as a cucumber, must have figured out the basic maths of our situation by now. She got the short end of the stick for her saviour. She got me and not Sherlock Holmes, or us both as a team. She got no big secret services rescue mission op either. And as much as I tried to assure her getaway – hopefully still in time for a new nanoparticles latte – in the end I failed.

It all happened fairly quickly. I made my presence known in the hostile territory. As predicted, they all zoomed in on me while Anthea got out unnoticed through the front; all I had to do was to stand ground. It was simple enough and I was ready. I never counted on Anthea growing a defying mind of her own. She apparently went round to the back of the factory, got to the parked truck Sherlock and I arrived in, and fumbled with the motor. So far so good, right? Especially if she'd have started the engine and driven away into safety before they caught up with her. They do it in the old movies, right? Start engines by twisting a few electric wires of different colours together. She could have left unnoticed, perhaps called in a rescue team for me? I'd hold on for as long as it took till Sherlock got here; and I know he'll come. _He won't let me down._

Instead of driving away to safety in a stolen truck, or walking out on foot altogether, Anthea got caught jamming the motor and immediately she got herself returned to her captivity.

She was only trying to sabotage their plan of getting to Mycroft at an embassy using a truck to smuggle in a fake cleaning crew; or something of the sort. Essentially, the sacrifice of the few – herself essentially, for I don't think I was particularly considered in the matter – for the protection of the many – embodied in the person of Mycroft, with his powerful governmental influence that can dictate fates and change lives.

Truck ruined and Anthea recaptured, as soon as they dragged her through those doors with a gun drawn to her head I lowered my fists and bowed my head, defeated.

That's how we ended up hanged out to dry. After the minor trouble of Anthea wrestling the gun off the man's hands and aiming it, with steady hands, at his face, there was a second gun coming to rest upon my temple. Anthea's cold soldier gaze widened as she saw the threat looming by my head and, slowly and resentfully, she lowered her own gun in surrender. She got pushed into a pile of clutter where she landed, with no further fight. I took an instinctive step forward, seeing a new cut on her arm from some jagged edged piece of metal in that pile of rubbish, but I was forcefully halted and pushed back.

The cut in her arm is still fresh and bleeding a little bit as we hang from the hooks side by side. It's possibly a bit better for the wound that the arm is elevated above her heart, it helps to minimise blood loos by counteracting the effects of gravity. There's nothing I can do to better analyse the wound for now.

As I look over my partner in misfortune I can't help but to be somewhat surprised by how cool and collected she looks. She has clearly absorbed Mycroft's poise and self-control in all of these faithful years of service. She's even got quite the fire in her; it becomes obvious as she dares to wriggle her small hands in the tiny hope of sliding out of through the tight binding ropes.

I'm a doctor and a soldier. I know how to break my own bones of the thumb and sprain the ligaments to get the hand free of such restraints. Works better when you're not fighting gravity, and perhaps with a bit looser ropes. From this vulnerable, hanging position, with all the pressure of our weight already being applied on our wrists, I give it up for useless before even trying.

I look away, focusing for a second in my own inner struggles. Arms hurt from the muscles being overstretched. Shoulder joints throb – and the scar tissue that bears witness of the past feels like it's being rubbed raw with sandpaper. They are thicker and less flexible rebuilt tissues that are being torn open instead of stretched.

_But enough of that._ I've come in to rescue a long permanence hostage, Anthea. She's risking not only the physical damage of our fights but also the psychological weight of prolonged abduction. No matter her training, it's not unheard of, people getting post-traumatic symptoms after such an ordeal.

'I'm fine.'

Her words are unmistakeably directed at me, as if while I pondered her wellbeing she was reading into my worries and decided to assure me. She even smiled, in a soft way, for the first time.

'You gave yourself up for me, Anthea.'

'Likewise. I was only repeating your move, John', she alleges, lightly. I'll take none of that. These things need to be verbalised, I believe:

'Thank you for saving my life.'

She tilts her hands and ponders me, amusedly.

_**.**_

As soon as our prison guards leave the building to gather outside by the mangled motor of the truck – and they are sure to fix it or use the phone book to rent a new set of wheels – I push all slowness and pain to the back of my mind. I wink at Anthea _(she really needs to smile more and I'll make that my mission if I can)_ before swinging my dangling legs backwards, collecting momentum. As I swing forward I pull them up, up to the ceiling hook. Arms and abs pressed tight, I force my legs to keep stretched. I may not be as flexible as I once was, but I've taken pride in keeping myself minimally fit. I'm a soldier, after all. One never stops being a soldier.

Ankle binds slide over the tip of the hook and it's easy to lock them in place, within fingers' reach that at once strive to untie the sturdy knots. It's not all peachy, though. I try to take my mind off the stretch and burn my acrobatic position causes, and I'm painfully reminded of muscles and ligaments that one usually only ponders their actual existence when studying a human anatomy medical text book. It's worthwhile, as I manage to unite my ankles and allow my legs to blissfully swing freely in the air under me, to recover normal feeling in them. Grabbing onto the hook I slide my wrists restraints over the tip inch by inch. As I reach the tip I slide them over and allow myself to fall down on the floor, freed. Squatting as I reach the ground, there's a glorious flood of relief washing over every tense muscle. I don't take time to mind that, or the dull pain in my scarred shoulder. I hastily undo the knots at my wrists.

Immediately I'm getting up and reaching for Anthea. She's looking sincerely surprised as she takes me in. I give her a polite smile; it comes out tentative.

Respectfully I grab Anthea's legs and raise her higher, high enough so she can slide the ropes over the tip, and finally lower to safe ground at my side, starting to untie her.

'You're like a bloody cat', she almost stutters as she speaks at last, full of a more honest, regional, accent that I can't quite place. I decline to respond, and just take her bruised wrists between my hands and gently rub circles on her skin to promote the blood flow. The formation of blood cloths from the heavy bruising is unlikely given that we are young and fit enough.

She adds, her eyes set on my sensible work: 'You are like a fluffy cat in comfy jumpers that starts hissing and clawing like a tiger when attacked.'

I shake my head, uncomfortable. I've got no idea what to answer to that. I'm not the secret services trained personnel here. She chuckles lightly.

'John, you are blushing. All the way to your ears. That's adorable.'

'I'm sure it's from the physical strain', I defend, dignified. 'I'm getting old.'

'Yes, of course', she says in her usual strange tone of voice, between humouring the other person and openly mocking them sarcastically; keeping that twinkle in her dark brown eyes. _This is not how I intended to amuse her_, I notice.

'Can I take a better look at your arm?' I ask the incredible woman at my side, so strong as she keeps herself together. I hold up her sleeve covered forearm gently.

She picks up on something in my expression because she answers it by teasing me: 'You didn't do such a bad job, John. I might like to keep you around.'

'Look at us, all mushy', I comment because this strange atmosphere doesn't quite suit us anymore. We are like two children. So much alike, we are discovering in each other how each of us present ourselves to the world.

_And the results are odd._

Anthea keeps her arm held out, giving me her confidence. The silly girl mocks my seriousness by holding out her hand as some shy princess to a knight. I take her outstretched fingers in my other hand, a bit more soberly. I'm a doctor, after all.

'You don't have to do this, you know', I comment, off-handed.

'Do what?'

'Seduce me or be funny, or whatever not. Anthea, I'm not leaving you behind and I'm most certainly not expecting a reward for my hard work. Sherlock and I planned to rescue you. We got separated, but I'm still carrying out my mission. Well, I've got an extra mission now. I need to contact Sherlock and make sure the git is alright.' Slowly I touch the skin above her nerves and tendons of her hand and wrist, to make sure there's no lasting damage. She patiently allows me to carry out my job.

Only a couple of seconds later do I realise she has allowed me more than that. As I traced a tendon over the inside of her hand, my fingers brushed upon an intentional mark in her skin; a tattoo. I glance sharply at Anthea's face, holding myself still, allowing her to gently pull the sleeve down over my curiosity and the exposed secret if that's her choice.

Instead, she drops her gaze to the exposed skin and keeps it there. All I can grasp is a flourished group of letters, starting with a capital letter A.

'Anthea?' I call her, to make sure I can proceed.

She misinterprets me. 'Not my real name, John. Not even the fake name I use every day now. I'm... building up a good collection of fake names, other aliases, through work. It'd be a bother to go through the pain of getting all of those inked on my skin.'

I frown slightly. 'Is _that_ your real name?'

'Yes', she states, calmly.

'Isn't that dangerous? To have your real name exposed on your skin when you go around calling yourself Ophelia to a diplomat one day, and Cassiopeia to a foreign prime minister the next?'

She smiles softly at my choices of names. They all have in common their uniqueness, their unusualness. They are extraordinary because she chose to live her life in the most extraordinary way she could. She wouldn't chose plain names like mine, but powerful, unforgettable, unmistakable ones. When choosing your own fake identity, if you are a clever, confident woman, why not chose something most of us can't have?

'I can claim it's the name of my mother or a lost niece, John. People don't question remembrance pieces much.' I nod, slowly, respectful of how she's always got a way out of every jam ready at hand.

'Why write your own name? Was it before you joined Mycroft's close circle?'

She shakes her head slowly, keeping her gaze strained on her arm. 'There was one morning when I woke up in a motel in the outskirts of Vienna and I had just about forgotten my own name, how it sounded', she tried to explain. 'Turned on the television as I got up in that small room. Most of the channels were dubbed in German. I just kept turning over till I found something in English. Finally I found a rerun of a soap opera, and that would do for me. One of the characters had my name. My real name. I only realised it when I had been listening to it for quite a while, it wasn't familiar to me anymore. It had been so long since I heard it out loud... Have you ever gone past two years without hearing your own name being spoken, John?' I shake my head, with some sadness. 'I just sat at the end of that bed and whenever some character spoke my name I answered the telly. I _needed_ to make my own name familiar again. It's not an exceptional name, but it's the one I grew up with, the one my family called me, it holds so many memories, and I don't get to hear it anymore. So later that day I found a way to carry it with me all the time, ever since. Yes, it's dangerous, John. But it's also got to be dangerous not to know who you are anymore... Do you understand, John?'

I nod, of course. She smiles softly and brushes her fingers over the fabric of her blouse, dragging it up for me to see the full name.

I shake my head with an unrestrained smile. '_Annie!_ I knew it! I guessed "Annie" and Sherlock said it wasn't it! He's full of –'

Anthea interrupts me at once: 'I must thank him, then. I don't usually allow people to know my real name. It feels very exposed, vulnerable.'

That sobers me up at last. I look her straight in her honest gaze eyes. 'Thank you for showing me.' _I'll keep your secret._

'It's alright. You saved my life. And we're both fighting our way out of danger together...' She smiles softly, then breaks her smiles and looks away. 'At the end of all this, with Mr Holmes safe, I hope they let me get the receptionist job at the front desk. I'd hope to see you every once in a while there, John.'

'We can't have you going back to being plain Annie.'

She smirks. 'Then I'll make sure to choose a more convoluted name.'

I press my lips thin. 'No. I'll make sure you get your job back, providing you still want it', I promise her, with no firm ground to stand my oath. And she knows that much.

'You're a good man, John.'

I shrug. 'You're just saying that because you want to know my middle name, Anthea.'

She smiles genuinely. _She probably already knows my middle name, and must have figured out I hide it beyond an initial and that I plain hate it._ It also doesn't go amiss that I keep calling her Anthea and not Annie, out of respect. We're now friends, as much as two persons with their lives on each other's hands can be, but a derelict factory where we've been hunted down more often than not is no place to drag her more intimate name. I will not mingle her precious memories of her family and her past in such a nightmare riddled location.

I'll wait for Anthea to give me permission to call her Annie, in a display of old-fashioned respect, perhaps.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	186. Chapter 186

_A/N: __**Part seven **__of however many in the missing goldfish case. __Getting close to the end__, I think. __-__csf_

* * *

_**.**_

Anthea is the perfect kidnap victim for someone rescuing her. Nerves of steel, collected, can even hold her ground more than enough to help in her own rescue. Of anything, it could make me feel a bit redundant. Right now I'm just glad we're having another chance to get away, one we don't intend to let go to waste.

Freed from our restraints by our own merit, we make our way downstairs. I gather my black jacket off the floor un the walk-in refrigerator. It's an old comfort piece that I don't want to leave behind. Call me sentimental, but it reminds me of the good times. As soon as we come back out of the cold chamber (and Anthea disguises a small shiver) I carefully take a peek out of the dirty windows, to the swarm of criminals around a deceased motor.

'You miss him', Anthea says out of the blue.

'What?' I whiplash my neck towards her. But my question is designed to gain time. I know at once who she means.

'Sherlock Holmes. You miss him.'

'I suppose so. We usually work together', I comment coldly because this is not an avenue of thought I want to explore. _Working without Sherlock is nonsensical in the least._ This is why I never took up Sherlock's business as a consulting detective at Baker Street for the two years he was gone. Sure, conning the clients implying I could solve cases like my friend was immoral, but I had enough hurt-fueled drive to get myself into danger to have welcomed the risk. It just so happened that without Sherlock it was just a hollow appeal, a restless death wish to prove one is alive. Without Sherlock the world became meaningless for a greater part of those two years.

'_Hold on for one more day._'

'Hm, what?' I'm pulled out of my exhaustion-fueled reverie by Anthea's murmured words. I insistently look over my shoulder at her until she shyly looks me in the eye with honesty – no more faking, we promised – and she repeats:

'_Hold on for one more day_; that's what I said. I was talking to myself, John. I'm...' she hesitates, so far from her self-assuredness of usual. 'It's something I once said to myself every morning. _Just one more day, I can make it for one more day._ I never believed anyone would understand it, but now I think you do, John.'

I nod. Bargaining with your restless mind, I remember how it felt like, once, when the life I led was the wrong one for me. Funny, with Sherlock, I never really fell for that mistake again. Live life mechanically, meaninglessly, wishing my life away. I needed _change_ almost like a man running away from his life. I went to medical school, I went to the army, I went to the war. I went to physiotherapy and back to London, retired. I focused to hold on for every single, new day, bargaining with myself on the hope on a good enough pay-off. I'm not sorry. It worked.'

'... Mycroft?' I ask, biting my lip.

She knows at once that I'm not asking if they have a close personal relationship, it's not what it's about. If Mycroft Holmes is half as bloody enticing and a vortex of daring bold risk behind that cold façade, then he may have revolutionised Anthea's world as Sherlock did for me. Just by showing me what was really there, lurching under the surface. "You see but you do not observe; think, John, think!"

Sherlock's world is rich, brighter and more colourful than mine, ordinarily. When arriving in London after Afghanistan I was in need of that flash bang colour and lights show he provided. He helped me find my strength back, for which I'm incredibly grateful.

Why he chose to help me when he didn't really require a blogger, or any other excuse of a work partner, is still somewhat a mystery. It's like we clicked from day one, like something meant to be.

Anthea puts her warm hand over mine on the window sill.

'To earn a Holmes trust is a very special thing, John. Don't sell yourself short. I've worked for Mycroft's trust for eight years and I never got as close as you got in twenty-four hours with Sherlock.'

I feel bad for Anthea. Everything we've gone through together at this factory has shown me nothing but loyalty for her job, her boss and her country.

Sherlock and Mycroft are so similar as men of thought, sometimes so rational that they can be somewhat detached from common sense and reality. But they were also essentially different. Mycroft will do anything for his mission in life, which is his job. Even at the cost of his interactions in life, and the happiness they could provide. _Does he seriously distrusts them, or is he used to emulate some degree of functional sociopathy as a protection mechanism, like his brother?_ Mycroft is a man who is alone and lonely – by his own choice – carrying in his shoulders burdens and responsibilities that would break less altruistic people. He is also a dangerous man, who would kill someone he loved – with perhaps the great exception of his little brother – for the good of the nation.

Sherlock is no less idealistic and grandiose, but facing the choice of nation or love, he might falter to make the difficult call. Sherlock is more naïve, vulnerable, humane. And that's ultimately what makes him great, grounds him, gives him a different sort of strength, a deeply rooted strength.

_Now we just need to make sure the two git brothers are safely rescued from the ambush being set upon them._

It takes next to nothing to get the front door opened and, with no opposition in sight, we welcome the fresh air and bright daylight. It's turning out to be a lovely day outdoors, let's make sure we keep ourselves out here and out of captivity this time...

Stealthily, Anthea and I make our muted way towards the back. Careful common sense would hint at an escape; but it would only double a task Sherlock is already performing, the one of warning his older brother. No, if we can stop these criminals from leaving, then we are truly doing our job as backup of two Holmes genius.

We are just about nearing the truck full of kidnappers when we are struck awed by a game changer.

In next to nothing I'm detecting a vague familiar scent of gunpowder and then, just immediately afterwards and before I can react, time shifts into a morphed construction of senses, adrenaline enhanced, as a massive explosion hatches from the factory we left behind. The steel and concrete structure moans and creeks and bends dangerously in an incredible display of hot movement as the walls tremble at the first response to the heat wave, then as consequence, the massive roar of the explosion is heard, I assume, for miles around. The hot air front smashes the dirty windows into myriads of shards that are projected alongside us, outwards, into the grounds.

We wouldn't have survived had we been still inside. I assume that was the plan to get rid of the kidnapped hostages.

Anthea crashes hard against the ground by my side, as I'm groaning harshly when my weak shoulder collides violently with the static landscape around the factory.

My partner in kidnap is the first to get up, slightly less stunned than me. She runs the remaining distance between us and the enemy, just as the truck takes off from the scene.

_I don't think they saw her, that's lucky._

I groan in my momentary privacy, rolling over to get the weight off my shoulder. Just my luck, my jumper is soaked through, not to mention wrecked with scratches from our dragging on the floor.

Okay, now I'm hyperventilating from the shock of the explosion and angered because _this was a good jumper! Oh, this seriously ticks me off!_

I get up slower than Anthea, chucking away my ruined jumper. Feeling the dampness that seeped through my shirt, I put on my jacket instead.

It might also help disguise our disgruntled appearances.

'John, how are we going to get away from here?' Anthea hurries back to me like a woman on a mission and urges me to answer, as we both look over our shoulders at the enemy, gaining distance from us.

I look all around, desperate, before I locate a miraculous solution. There, hurled against the ground walls is a powerful motorcycle. Abandoned, waiting for a job to do.

_Well, I guess that settles it, then._ We're riding our way out of here on a stolen bike.

'Oh, we'll think of something...' I minimize, as a defying smile spreads over my face.

_**.**_

I speed the motorcycle down the narrow streets with measured disregard for the way we come across in the upper side of London. It might even warrant a few concerned citizen calls to the Metropolitan Police about our reckless driving, we might even get an ASBO if we got caught, but I'm beyond any pretence of being a law abiding citizen. We're pressed for time. Anthea needs to return to the grid by ingesting a nanoparticles solution that I have no idea where to get her, Mycroft Holmes could be on the brink of having a premeditated attack made on his life, and Sherlock – my mad best friend – might risk too much and need my help before I even get there. To all these I answer by accelerating the motorcycle even more.

We reach wider streets with less traffic and broader sidewalks. Catching up with a pulled over cab letting out an elderly client I swerve and climb on the sidewalk. It takes some sharp turns to manoeuvre out of the way of innocent people walking the streets.

Anthea just clutches on tighter to my chest, not like the Bond-girl accessory, but rather like the sidekick in an equal level. Dark undulating hair in our wake, strong grip on my waistline, high heels (well, not that high, she's sensible) supported on each side of the motorbike. We move in unison and lean in on every curve in a beautiful dance, fueled by danger and a sense of mission. None of us fights for dominance over the machine. It's the motorcycle's time to shine.

I let the wild machine roar in impatience and power, clutching to it in a tight authoritarian grasp. My jacket is torn open revealing my shirt that gets blown tight against me by the wind. My hair is sleek as it's being pulled back, shinning brightly in the morning sun that has come to greet our daring. In the back of my mind I wonder if Sherlock and I need to adopt the motorcycle into our Baker Street partnership. Perfect for the hectic London traffic jams... _and for fun._

Anthea keeps grabbing hold of me tightly but with an exploring hand drifting around my torso, she judges gently into my jacket's pocket and removes my phone. _Forgotten about it._

She thumbs my phone one handedly with extreme dexterity (she must be missing her own blackberry, having gone cold turkey). It's only when she shows me the lit screen and I glance down at it that I realise she has an intention.

(Received 9:02)

Mycroft told me I'm jittery and scattered minded. -SH

(Received 9:03)

After he asked me if I was high. -SH

I frown, looking back at the blurring streets at high speed. I take it Mycroft was less than impressed with a planned coupe on his life? Diplomatic issues and state affairs coming first, despite the fair warning brought in by he best consulting detective of London and beyond?

_To protect the many at the expense of a few._ Credit must be given to Mycroft Holmes' consistent morality. He will not bend his rule even for his own safety, of all people.

At once I know Sherlock stays at the embassy. To save the life of the man who disregards his own safety for the nation's. Queen and country saved in a different manner of mine as a soldier, but the same heartfelt patriotism.

I sigh. Mycroft's misplaced heroism is making our lives harder by the minute. And let us not forget the impact his decision might still have on Anthea. He should be solving her mess right now. Like Sherlock says, if the rules are wrong, then we make new rules; _only it's usually at Cluedo._

My phone chirps, from behind me, and Anthea shows me dutifully.

(Received 10:47)

My brother is what you called me on Thursday the 29th at eleven o'clock. -SH

_What? I really can't recall what I may have said to Sherlock on some Thursday. Is he really keeping tabs?_

(Received 10:47)

A pompous, self-absorbed twat. -SH

Oh... Did I? I might have, in the heat of the moment.

Wait, does this mean that Sherlock recalls the exact wordings of a heated argument? Hasn't he... I don't know... _Deleted it_ as unimportant?

It physically pains me to remember Sherlock's near perfect memory. I have this sudden visual of Sherlock in his mind palace with my words still echoing in the walls of a room. I sigh and shake my head, ashamed of myself. Sometimes I forget Sherlock didn't grow up with a tomboy sister who played as rough as my mates. We'd push each other's buttons, shove, insult, kick, tease mercilessly, all for the sake of growing up. This is not natural to my friend. With Sherlock it's so easy to forget he's not so familiar with hotheaded retorts. I knew it was slightly under the belt but I never felt like I was ever any more blunt than he is with me. "You're an idiot", he told me multiple times.

I grab my phone out of Anthea's hand, feeling some privacy is required. I type, dangerously disregarding the dangers of texting and driving.

(Sent 10:48)

I didn't mean it.

I hate this idea that Sherlock is relieved I answered this time.

(Received 10:48)

Didn't think so either. -SH He plays it cool. I smirk, bemused. Apologies accepted then.

(Received 10:48)

And it takes one to know one. -SH He adds, just to have the last word.

(Sent 10:49)

Talking again about Mycroft, are we? I type ingeniously. I can almost hear him chuckle as he reads my response. I may be the only person Sherlock lets his guard down with enough to get surprised. _It's a privilege._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	187. Chapter 187

_A/N: __**Part **__**eight **__of however many in the missing goldfish case. "However many" being nine, for there's only one more, for wrapping up purposes._

_Still not British, a writer, or a goldfish. __-__csf_

* * *

_**.**_

The morning glows and the wind flows past us with a beautiful intensity that brings us to the narrow here and now. Time alters itself to unfold faster, the feeling of opportunity almost within grasp intensifies and daringly we venture forth with full faith in our luck alone.

Riding the motorcycle, we are fluidly crossing London with only one goal in mind. We must rejoin the Holmeses. Both Anthea and I can proudly claim _we are needed by their side_.

Finally we're nearing the foreign nation's embassy, the one of a nation I'll forever need to keep out of the record of our adventures, the one my fallible memory and my offered word of honour must conspire to maintain anonymous.

'Any ideas on how we're getting in?' I raise my voice so it can be heard above the roar of the wind at our high speed.

Behind me, clutching at me with intent, Anthea hesitates, but won't challenge it's a fair question. The main house is an expensive looking Georgian estate, detached from the neighboring houses, with a fair bit of a lawn embellished garden and gates where it meets the street. Flags, national and foreign, stand at parades rest by the main gate, where two men in dark clothes and heavy MI5 look about them are eyeing us from a distance.

'I know them', Anthea tells me. 'I can get clearance for you to go in, if they don't know I've been off the radar this long.'

'It's worth the try.' There can be no better way of entering a heavily secured house that is considered a foreign nation's land and where a number of very important dignitaries are found at the moment, without risking getting us all shot down. Sure Sherlock knows we're are coming, although I didn't quite particularise on the details of what had happened and how we got away from abductions, questionings, chases, explosions and the lot. Sherlock didn't quite recount for me how he spent his (I assume, boring) morning so far. Doubling security, shadowing his brother, milling about in complicated, top secret scenarios.

Slowing our speed until full halt by the two security guards' side, Anthea is quick to unmount from behind me and flash out an ID card. If I find it odd that Mycroft's PA has kept her ID with her throughout her ordeal, I immediately think twice when I see that the plastic card she's showing the men is completely blank to the exception of a magnetic strip on the back. _Secrecy is security, after all._ They unbury a small reading machine between them and scan her pass. It hails an immediate green light. But no, security could never be only that. Anthea huffs.

'Mr Chandler, you know who I am. And this is doctor Watson, who you have surely seen before. He needs to be let in, at once, to go to my employer. I will stay behind and take care of all the necessary clearances, while he goes in.'

'Am afraid I can't do that, ma'am.'

'May I remind you who my employer is? He does not take kindly any kind of delay.'

'This visit was not scheduled, we have no instructions', Chandler insists.

'I'm giving them now.'

I find myself impatiently looking between Chandler and Anthea, measuring influences. Will someone just let me in and go do my job before I give up staying on this cue and find an alternative way in?

'I said; Mr Holmes is waiting.'

Mycroft's name brings a visible chill to the guard, less and less sure of upholding protocols as the seconds tick by. Finally he glances nervously at his partner and then nods at Anthea.

I smile and step on the accelerator pedal.

'Wait, you need to leave that bike here!' he still tries to yell after me, I'm already speeding my way to the house, leaving them to sort out the red tape.

_**.**_

Tall French windows, small classic orchestra playing live, overly dressed waiters floating around some of the most influential figures of the diplomatic world in three pieces suits and high couture dresses. I have little time to take it all in. As I'm approaching I recognise one flaw in the picture. Just a small minutia, but if Sherlock has taught me anything it has been _not to disregard details_. They are most telling. A mismatched button can be a sign of a serial adulterer, an unused pair of reading glasses on a myopia afflicted person a sign of a bomber, an ink smudge on the left thumb on a right-handed person a tell for a serial killer. Or they could be all coincidences, despite what Sherlock says. Well, just in case, I zoom in on the waiter in a tailcoat suit with coloured socks. In my mind, he can't have been here long enough without being called on the wrong socks by his boss. And that means he just might not belong here. The man who still has his back turned on me has the correct built and height to be the kidnappers leader. He could be making his move right now. If Sherlock's mottos and my gut instinct are right...

Only one way to find out...

I speed the motorcycle aiming for the glass doors that keep me out, hunching over the motor and shelter my eyes with my arm. I crash through spectacularly in an explosion of glass shards and noise. Immediately I spin the bike and brake it, abandoning it fallen sideways with the wheels still spinning fast. I've jumped off and rush to the fake waiter, landing a punch as the musician's stop playing in utter shock, and the guests duck for cover. A second punch and he's out cold on the floor and I'm panting over him. As I look up, there are half a dozen guests who have guns drawn at me. Undercover bodyguards, then._ Well, I got to the bad guy first, I win._

I look around at them, not much unlike a caged animal. _I'm in trouble._

From within the room, Sherlock has appeared out of nowhere and swiftly positioned himself next to me. A bit too close, I could say, but it's just usual in my friend and I'm used to it. Still, it kept the bodyguards from firing at me straight away, as Sherlock certainly intended. I let him be the one squatting and picking up the fake waiter's gun. In fact, I'm a bit busy being used as a soon-to-be target practise by a third of the ball party and I keep still with my hands in the air.

I could swear I hear Sherlock almost growl as he points the gun at the man on the floor. No point, he's out cold for a while.

Mycroft steps forward, perhaps a bit too pale. The man who plays nations like a game of chess can hardly be frightened by a plot to take his life. Instead, I suspect he dislikes having all those guns pointed to the vicinity of where his baby brother stands.

Mycroft gestures irritably and at once all the guns disappear from view. _That's a nice, handy trick; I wish I could learn it._

I look heavily at Sherlock _– now I know he's okay I can now give him a good dirty look for leaving me alone, for not stopping this fake waiter sooner, whatever!_ – who in turn looks at Mycroft. The older Holmes snaps his fingers in the direction of the live orchestra and the musicians resume playing with uneasy expressions.

As I'm allowing the two brothers to settle their scores in a mimicry filled silent dialogue (I bet Sherlock is abusing of some eloquent eye rolls and heavy looks), I doubly make sure the defeated criminal has no other concealed weapons. As I'm finishing checking him out a couple of undercover bodyguards come to remove the unconscious man that drags back as a sack of potatoes in their grasp. I guess that's it. At least for now, for this one time. The man's team, that we learned about so well in the old factory, was a support for this man to come in. Without their promised reward they'll scatter in no time, not wanting to be accused of Anthea's kidnap and Mycroft's attempted murder. In the end, it turned out quite easy to save the day, I suppose. I mean, there's a huge mess to clean before I can walk out of here proudly. But Mycroft is safe, Sherlock is protected, Anthea... well, I'll make sure she gets her job back, even if I must pressurise Mycroft myself.

Sherlock silently calls my attention by laying his hand on my shoulder. I flinch instinctively, due to the overstrained muscles under my jacket.

_Oh, I shouldn't have._ Sherlock would never miss my instinctive reaction, and he goes berserk at this point. Maniacally dangerous, off the wall. He's growling loudly now, looking all around us in a sort of feral protection of the soldier still crouching down. Fast deductions spin past his eyes and are voiced at a high speed string of half cooked sentences and thoughts. He's checking everyone, and he doesn't care for the social norms or consequences. His deductions are a weapon in itself and he's firing them at high speed at everyone in the room but me.

'... Repressed pianist... Divorced three times... Secret lesbian... Pet chicken... Violent behaviour... Broken wrist as a child... Deep grief... Newborn baby... Bankrupt... Extremist... Serial gambler... Practical joker... Blind parents... Cheated on his taxes... Mycroft', he turns to his brother and feigns an eye roll. 'Take care of the three rats in the room, will you?'

Mycroft's eyes narrow and he looks back to the stunned still crowd. The cold draft from the outside makes its way into the room undeterred. Two seconds later he agrees: 'I see. Three, yes, brother mine. Will do... despite my tight schedule and how much I abhor fieldwork, as you well know.' He snaps his fingers at his men and points at two guilty diplomats and one musician.

Too bad, the musician played nicely.

'Sherlock, can you be trusted with the guests?' he asks out loud before leaving with the bodyguards and criminals.

My friend presses his lips thin, childishly. 'I know how to behave.'

'Hardly, so far... John, keep an eye on him, will you?'

I raise an eyebrow as a silent comment on their brotherly bickering. I guess it's all business as usual even after we've just folded a plot to kill Mycroft Holmes.

Suddenly, as if the action spell I was under is drying out with the adrenaline flowing in my veins, I realise how awkward it is to stand amid the chaos of my own authorship, surrounded by frightened and disgruntles guests.

Wait, how am I going to explain the mess I made at foreign soil within London? Where did Mycroft go? Can he vouch that I was merely saving his life? Is someone expecting me to pay for the new French windows?

With a new kind of uncertainty and shame I turn to Sherlock, looking for answers in my friend's all knowledgeable reasoning.

'Mycroft will clean it up for you, John... No harm done. The ambassador has quite a sense of humour, I'm told... And, anyway, Mycroft's got leverage on him and his addictions.' I frown, yet I make sure to stop myself short. Better that I don't know really. Sherlock squints and only by that small change in his green eyes all his expression changes. I can feel his electrifying gaze studying me with full attention.

'What is it?' I whisper, looking back at him.

'You.'

I could blush, under such intense scrutiny.

Suddenly Sherlock is all over me, in absolutely no respect for my autonomy. He grabs me by the right arm and pushes me along. I end up trailing behind him like a dazzled child, trying to look in control when honestly I have no idea what is possessing my friend.

Just because it happens so often – Sherlock leads the way and I follow him passively – it doesn't mean I don't wonder about his intentions every time.

'Stop thinking, John!' he snaps at me, accordingly.

'I will if I want to', I assert my ground.

He almost growls at me.

Sherlock pushes me out of the crowded ball room and into the solitary corridors of the house. I feel quite relieved when I'm not scrutinised by several attentive gazes anymore. Sherlock seems to know what he's doing, so I follow meekly, and I may have been a bit distracted because he's now getting us into the male toilets with little or no opposition from me.

There's an automatic protest coming from me at once. I don't care if he wants privacy to discuss Mycroft, the case, or the yellowish colour of goldfishes. This is one of those times when _people will talk_. Even unimaginative people will talk and I hardly will be able to blame them for reaching erroneous conclusions!

My face feels like its burning red as I try to explain common sense to my uncommon friend. 'Sherlock, people are going to think... well, _funny things_ if they see us coming to the toilet together! We're both capable adults, we don't need to come to the toilet together!'

Sherlock, instead of his customary puzzled look, actually smirks. I don't need the long mirror above the set of sinks to see that I get even redder after that. 'No, wait, don't you go thinking I was thinking that myself, I wasn't, but I'm a person that knows what other people perceive when—'

With no response whatsoever, Sherlock slams me against the side wall, standing right in front of me, tall and overwhelming. I gulp. He comes even nearer. Weakly, confused, I try to shove him off by pushing him backwards by his left arm. He grabs my outstretched right hand at once. With a softness that is as disquieting as his previous briskness he holds my hand gently in his, under a worried look in his honest green eyes. I gulp drily. Sherlock then uses his other hand to push the shirt buttons open as my breathing pattern hastens. As he exposes my left shoulder my suspicions are proven right. _This_ was the awkward reason for the whole embarrassing thing. Sherlock needed to trick me, to take the edge of my focus on the pain and discomfort so he could analyse my instinctive reactions, that I was keeping from him. I pushed him back with one single hand. Sparing my left shoulder. Ever since I flinched a while ago when he touched my left shoulder over my jacket's fabric he nurtured a plan to make me use my left hand if possible. I was painfully deterred from using it, thus confirming his suspicions. Sherlock's powers of deduction and ease of manipulation win; his blogger's injury is now on full display.

I search for our reflection on the mirror. My shoulder scar is ragged, thick, inelegant as always but the surrounding tissues are redder, puffier. Inflammation, localised pain, some temporary muscle use impairment and loss of full range of motion. Ice, painkillers, rest.

'I'm okay, Sherlock', I assure him calmly. He needs this verbalisation sometimes, in pure common sense. I also find that when he's most worried, it appeases him to hear my voice. It's calming, I believe, because it's yet another evidence he can analyse, deduce from, categorize, and make sense in his rational manner, the one he trusts when emotions run high and appear so misleading. 'I'm fine', I whisper, repeating myself.

Some anger surges into his voice when he snaps: 'You're an idiot. You got yourself hurt because I wasn't there.'

Is that a self-accusation? Because if he was going for demeaning, then his eyes shouldn't look so scared.

I smile softly. Not because I enjoy his pain in any manner, but because I want to tranquilise him. _I'm here to stay; I'm alright._

It's at moments like these that I know he sees me as more than just his blogger. And if _friend_ is an incomplete definition, and if the way people will talk about us like is not exact, then I guess this makes me his... _goldfish_?

My smile deepens. Well, then _Sherlock is my goldfish_. Right back at you, my friend...

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	188. Chapter 188

_A/N: __**Part nine / last part**__ of the missing goldfish case! Tell me again: how did this get so long?..._

_I reckon I'm a high functioning introspect__ on a mission__. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'Anthea!' I snap out of my distraction, and in the process shoving Sherlock out of my way. I had almost forgotten about her, in my relief to be reunited with a safe and sound Sherlock. Well, with that and the shock of being cornered by Sherlock into the gents' restrooms, but enough of that.

It's been a long morning. We have freed the hostage, stopped a planned attack on Mycroft Holmes and caught the bad guys. It really should be the end of it. But no matter the heroics of the real victim on all of this – Anthea – we've fought a lost battle. Anthea's loyalty was proved day in and day out by the ingestion of those nanoparticles. In Mycroft's fully accountable, paranoia ridden, world a personal assistant couldn't go off-grid long without there being a danger that she was compromised by his hidden enemies. Mycroft is now supposed to downgrade her, take another personal assistant and start again. She's become a disposable employee, because she didn't report to work to in time.

This isn't about Mycroft being upset she was fifteen minutes late for work because she says the train was running late. Mycroft holds State secrets that, if exposed, could cause great damage to lots of people. If this PA is held as leverage, her absence would have her demoted automatically to a receptionist, thus reducing her importance and the power she holds. It's like if I was held hostage and Sherlock could then assure the world I'm only his housecleaner, for instance, and only deal with me in that capacity from then on. Safeguarding me along the process, in a tortuous way, by reducing my importance. Someone else would become the new John and all apparent order in the universe would be restored. Sherlock wouldn't be happy about it, I know he wouldn't. I'd take that reaction with inner pride. But what he could actually do about it if he had created the rules in the first place and a big organisation depended on him?

Mycroft might not like executing his own rules, but the beloved country he serves depends on it.

Any lesser man would be brought down by the bitter poison of his own sting. I expect no such thing from the Ice man. A stiff upper lip and he'll be the politest incoming visitor at the building where Anthea will work as a receptionist.

With some shock I realise Sherlock has been eyeing me with some worry. 'I need to see Anthea', I explain as best as I can. This is no time for him to be jealous of my split attention. 'I need to go and apologise for failing her.'

Sherlock's gaze turns heavy. 'John, you've got her out of imprisonment. Is that not enough that you'd let yourself rest a while before returning to action? You are injured, I've just proved it, it's insane to deny it.'

I look away, pretending the disinterest I cannot fully grasp. 'I saved her life, but not the life she leads, Sherlock.'

'It's not two different things, John', he protests.

'Is it not?' I ask with some sadness. As I came back from Afghanistan, I was happy to be alive, of course I was; but my life, as I knew it, was irreparably shattered, and I had to mourn that loss. Of course Sherlock is not aware of that. I was to meet him only shortly after that dark period in my life.

We're two fools, Anthea and I. Giving our lives away to two geniuses and something bigger than us. And at what cost? I never pondered this. If it has been the lifesaving character of Sherlock's work that ultimately saved me (every time we were saving other people's lives) by making mine feel more meaningful, more needed; if it has been his need of a perfectly ordinary army doctor that would fit so seamlessly into his world; or if it has bern the promise of danger fulfilled that feeds a destructive compulsion running deep in me; I wouldn't know which was the reason for sherlock to take me in. And Anthea? Working with Mycroft Holmes and his little pet obsessions must be highly damaging to one's mental health... There is an undeniable brilliancy in Mycroft Holmes, the sort I've always found in Sherlock, that is tantalising to us, regular people. But in the older Holmes' case it lacks those vulnerable, innocent undertones that make me forgive the social blunders, and going about the wrong way for the right reasons, that I see in Sherlock...

Anthea has been strong, even stronger than me. For eight years of devoted service she took it all in as it came. Because she knew Mycroft couldn't offer more. His friendship would always be out of reach, barred by his services to the People.

Back in the present, Sherlock easily reads my mind with his own words: 'You're upset. Oh, John...' He depreciates my reaction. 'This is Mycroft we're talking about, remember? We knew he'd give up Anthea if we didn't get her back by the end of the compromised period of time. Mycroft always plays by the rules. _He wrote the rules._ He may still write a rules book on how to read the rules. There's no way he can diplomatically bend the rules now. He'll give Anthea up and isolate himself further... Now, for some reason that escapes and irks me, John, I never wanted to see that happen. Don't ask me to explain it, it's just the way it is.' He accompanies his declaration with a vague swirly gesture. 'Sentiment, perhaps. You should know, you're my blogger.' He suddenly plays all aloof, as if he just stepped out of his shell too far. 'Anthea has done a good job, been loyal and got closer to Mycroft than any other person outside our immediate family circle.'

I frown, trying to read into Sherlock's words, into all that he's guarded again, behind thick walls.

Sherlock has lead us out into the corridor. Now he slows his footsteps and studies me back. Suddenly rolling his eyes, he adds:

'No, no, not like that! Must you always have your mind in the gutter, John? This is Mycroft, he doesn't do... _have_', he corrects himself very fast, 'lady friends.' Then, to my smirk he sighs audibly. 'Not like that either', he adds, giving up on admonishing me. Maybe a part of him thinks having one's mind in the gutter is funny.

'Anthea helps my brother to be more human. This is a skill Mycroft cannot recognise, but I can', he tells me, with strong green eyes fixed on me.

I'm puzzled by his momentary intensity. _I didn't think he had such a strong opinion on Anthea._

_**.**_

Anthea stands still, proudly, set between the two bulky men at the gate. At first sight of us her face lights up with a genuine giving smile. _I've found my Holmes__ and she's happy for me._ Then her smile falls somewhat, because the comparisons between us are inevitable, but she bravely stays strong as we come closer.

'John, Mr Holmes', she greets, having the first word.

'She's with us', Sherlock grunts unreasonably to the men, in protection of the short woman by the towering agents.

They don't budge. Chandler reports, coldly: 'We've received word she's been compromised, sir.'

I step up, going from calm to feisty in 0.7 seconds. Sherlock stops me with one single discrete gesture. He won't have me fighting, too impressed with the vast array of reds and purples on my shoulder.

'There's been some mistake', he states calmly, with a small smile even. 'My brother will sort it all out. Come, Anthea.'

She plays along at once, stepping ahead. They forcefully hold her back. 'There's been no mistake, Mr Holmes', Chandler insists.

Sherlock's eyebrows drop and his gaze darkens. 'Fine, come along with me to my brother, he'll sort this out.'

The younger bodyguard hesitates – and Sherlock's simple plan almost works – but the older, Chandler, stands his ground. 'Very well, sir.'

I glance at Sherlock, desperate to see a new plan being formed behind his expressive eyes. _We were so close. Is this really defeat?_

The four of us head back to the house. This time I catch sight of the French doors I destroyed in my haste, and it makes me cringe. _What have I done?_ The Holmes methods are intellectual fights among castles in the air. _Or palaces._ I bluntly crashed the party. Yeah, trust a former soldier to cut to the chase any day.

'Sherlock, have we got a plan?' I whisper tightly to my mad friend, all aloof and unreadable.

'It's our case, John', he mentions for an answer, cryptic as there ever was one.

'What?'

'The missing goldfish case, remember?'

I blank, confused. Of course I remember, but what does he mean by it?

'I still don't know what a goldfish is...' I confess naturally, regardless of the audience. Sherlock is at the front, Anthea stands between us and Chandler keeps a close eye on us from the back.

Anthea answers my doubt: 'A goldfish is a person that, although not to the standards of a Holmes, has come to be viewed with sympathy and regard.' I can tell she's smirking. _My sentiments exactly._

'A friend, you mean?' I read. 'Can't these smug geniuses use our language?' I ask sideways, relishing on our friendship. _I'll miss these moments of camaraderie and the deep understanding of two people who share __similar__ life twists._

Her smile intensifies. 'I like you, John', she says then. 'I like your honesty and simplicity. I can see what Sherlock saw in you.'

I smile softly. 'Trust me, Mycroft can't really know how lucky he's been to have you there... So, how did it all start?' I lightly change the subject as I see her blush. 'Where did you find the job advertisement to apply for the post? Encrypted in the crosswords section of the Financial Times? Were you approached by the Secret Services of three different nations first? I better _not_ ask about the interview process...'

She turns her face away and I just know she won't answer me honestly. 'I was a primary school teacher, John, not in the secret services.'

'Yeah, right! And I was a tourist back in the Middle East...'

'And it's all over now, John.' I face her at once. She holds on strong, cold. 'There's nothing you can tell me that can make the way Mycroft Holmes behaved towards me alright.'

I guess not. How could I expect less from the woman who holds herself so proudly? She's always met Mycroft's needs and now, in the dire hour of retribution, he kept himself impartial and distanced.

Wish I could tell her not to give up on the Holmeses so fast, but I can't find the optimism to believe on a miracle to come.

Sherlock seems to know exactly where to find his brother. He leads us to a small library at the far back, far away from the distraught guests and architectural chaos.

'Mycroft...' he announces himself belatedly, walking in by opening the dark wood doors wide with no preamble.

The older Holmes doesn't look particularly surprised as he looks up, from his seat by the cold fireplace, papers at one hand and a glass of dark wine in the other.

'Sherlock, John... I appreciate you didn't crash down this door, John. It saves me a new talk with the ambassador, that kindly lended me his study.' He gestures around in the colonial style room, complete with tall full bookshelves and hunting scenes painting on the walls. Definitely not Mycroft's style, but it'll do today. 'I've arranged for the costs of repairing the French doors to be taken care of, John. What else can I do for you, gentlemen?'

'And Anthea', I snap curtly. He won't even acknowledge Anthea or Chandler. I can hardly guess why he's talking to me at all.

Sherlock takes the lead. 'Your guard seems to think there is something wrong with Anthea's function in her job.'

Chandler clears his throat and reports: 'She fell off-grid, sir. It's protocol to detain her.'

Mycroft's expression turns to boredom. 'I know what the protocol is, corporal. I wrote it myself over a fine glass of Port...' He rolls his glass gently his fingertips.

'Well, sir...' Chandler is uncomfortable.

'Surely, Mycroft...' I start. Sherlock cuts me off with a brisk yank at my left arm, by his side. A bit too brisk, and I send him a threatening look, rubbing my shoulder discretely.

'Perhaps you should revise your data', Mycroft carries on, calmly. 'Anthea has been by my side all morning. She may have gone off-grid when I sent her to the cellar to retrieve this lovely Port wine, a generous offer of the ambassador, of course.' He sips calmly from his glass. 'The signal returned as soon as she came up.'

'That was not the intel I...' He rechecks his ID machine. Then blinking, he takes it all in. 'She was gone a long while, sir.'

'It's a very messy cellar. Although I'll refrain from pointing that out to the ambassador. He's had enough rudeness from us in a day.' And he pointedly looks at me.

'The signal returned at six I the morning. You are right, it's been strong since...'

'An understandable mistake.'

'Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!'

Mycroft relents. 'I'll see that your dedication does not go unnoticed, corporal Chandler.'

'Thank you, sir!' He's positively gleaming as he leaves the room.

I'm baffled. 'Sherlock, how did you...?'

He shrugs, all of a sudden modest. 'One of us had to ingest the nanoparticles to get Anthea back on the grid, it was obvious, John!'

'So, you...?' I smile gently.

He shakes his head. 'They are GPS tracked, remember? We couldn't have "Anthea" showing up just anywhere.'

'So you didn't take them, nor have you poisoned my coffee _again_.'

'Not this time, no.' He smirks.

I turn to Anthea and translate the genius talk I've learnt to decode by years of patience:

'Mycroft drank the nanoparticles, Annie.' She said nothing could change her mind, no proof of devotion. How about this down to earth solution? Proving Mycroft is not above doing for her what he has asked of her.

Anthea blinks, as if divided between believing and doubting.

'Mr Holmes doesn't do what he calls "menial safeguards", John', she knows.

We both look towards the suddenly quiet Holmes. It's as if I can see in him his brother's social shyness right now. He stays quiet, waiting on Anthea to deliver her sentence. Giving her the power in their relationship for once.

'Not to protect himself, he doesn't, but he seems to have done so to protect you.' I smile confidently at my new friend. 'I can't tell you he enjoyed it, though...' She smiles too.

'He did an exception in this case.'

'In your case. He did a lot of exceptions, Annie, for you. I just wanted you to know that.'

'To pressure me?' She doubts my honesty, staring back at me in sudden suspicion.

My smirk deepens. 'No, for you to pressure _him_.'

She giggles inwardly. I'm sure she understands. She now has an option, if she wants to take it. If she wants her job back. If she wants to trust him again.

'Thank you, Mr Holmes', she tells him, strong and proud.

'Thank you, Annie, he replies, his guard falling for the smallest instant, looking relieved and young, just like his brother.

_**.**_

'Come on, Anthea, we're friends now! Tell me a terrible thing about Mycroft and I'll tell you one about Sherlock!'

She gives me a measured look, between the two of us, sat at the back of a dark governmental car. I get it that she already knows more about Sherlock than I probably do, just for hanging around on the background while Mycroft stalks his little brother for protection. 'Right.' I clear my throat, awkwardly. This means she knows plenty about my daily life too, from Baker Street.

'I don't drink as much tea as is rumoured', I mutter. She looks amused without commenting, keeping her secrets.

I now know she'll protect not only the Holmes secrets but mine as well. Tea consumption included. _Ta._

_**.**_

Baker Street feels as homely as ever. Sherlock and I take our usual seats in the armchairs with cups of warm rich tea fir each of us. It's hard to believe only this might we were sharing this very room with Mycroft Holmes, the most unusual of clients.

'You realise you won't be able to write about this case, John.'

I nod. When it comes down to the Holmes brothers' affairs "high level security" is an understatement.

'It will all soon be forgotten', I assure my friend.

'Too bad', he comments, dreamily. 'I'd imagine this to be one of your favourite cases, John.'

I frown. Too much violence, for too much on the line, I'm sure I went a bit overboard at times. 'No, definitely not... And you had it easy!' I sneer without putting my heart in it. 'Did you enjoy being a standby bodyguard to your brother?'

He pretends disinterest, sipping his tea quietly for a while. 'You enjoyed the motorcycle, John', he deduces, on the offensive.

I raise my eyebrows. 'Yeah', I confess. 'What would you say to–'

'No', he snaps before I cam finish proposing to make the motorcycle our official transport from now on. 'Just drop it, John, it will never happen.'

'Are you saying that because you don't know how to ride one?'

He tilts his head to the side and ponders me silently through some unknown haze of memories. I gather he must actually know how to ride, I just didn't get to see it. 'I know how. Mary can vouch for it.'

I feel confused, but he won't elaborate. So I change tactics. 'Was this your favourite case?'

'Yes', he admits simply. _I wouldn't have expected it._

'Really? Why?' _Mycroft?_

'Mycroft, yes', he agrees, not looking me on the eye all of a sudden. 'Not like you think, John, with romantic notions of family and honour. Mycroft begged for my help, he gave me a personal case.' Sherlock chuckles, devilishly.

'He got you in a social gathering, the kind you never attend.'

My friend almost shivers as he remembers. 'You took your time', he accuses me in the end. I smile softly at my friend's false impatience. _You're welcome, Sherlock._

_**.**_

'John, I fail to perceive the pertinence of this arrangement', Mycroft Holmes tells me in a dignified manner.

I suspect he's not to thrilled to be in the New Scotland Yard's shooting range with me. My reasonable suspicions only deepen as I sense his restrain; Mycroft is actively ensuring he doesn't glance at the secured area's door. He doesn't want to be seen here. It's useless, really. I arranged for us to have this place for ourselves with Lestrade's help. Furthermore, his driver is standing outside, in a military"at ease" posture.

No caution is too small till we figure out what motivated this incident.

Inside these walls we have only the shooting range to focus on. We both have been equipped with guns, protective gloves, goggles and we have sound insulating mufflers at hand. On the other side of a waist high barrier starts the long corridor that ends with the suspended target. The heart is emphasized by concentric lines. _The head gets good scores too, though._ The target couldn't be more sterile, textbook and educational. It will do for now.

I offer to Mycroft, palatably: 'I figured it was time to kidnap you for once.'

A hint of amusement crosses his face as if he's sure he had the final call on the kidnap. Well, if he chose to fall into my little trap that only validates my point, right?

'You brought me to these facilities. I'm assuming there is a plan... Is there a plan, John?'

I nod, honest, ignoring the condescendence.

'I'm going to teach you to shoot, Mycroft', I tell him quietly, as I check the chambers, the bullets, the straight line of the barrel. He looks outraged and about to walk out on me (this is one of those times when he reminds me so much of his little brother, and Sherlock is the reason I'm doing this). Somehow he stays. Good, I wouldn't do much with a squeamish Holmes. _For the life of me I can't understand why he stays, but I'm glad._

'I know how to shoot, John. I can show you my proficiency certificate if you wish.'

_Good golly, this is going to be even harder than I anticipated._

With an appeasing gesture I ask him to go ahead. We both put on the mufflers and goggles. Mycroft elegantly takes up his gun (he's an inch away from saying "en guard!" and floundering the tip of the gun), he lines the gun with the target and pulls the trigger. Satisfied, he lowers the gun and presses the red button that brings forward the target.

The bullet went straight through the heart.

No mercy from the Ice man.

I nod, impressed, and press the button to take the target back.

'Is it enough to stop your worries, John?' Mycroft asks with undisguised glee.

I shrug. 'Nice shot. Good positioning. Well dealt with, the recoil on the gun...' I glance over my shoulder and in a fluid gesture that accompanies that fleeting look my gun is up and shooting. One, two, three times. All through the centre. Mycroft is flinching and covering his ears with his hands, harder after each loud reverberation of the gunshots in close vicinity. I take his moment of dramatic surprise to ascertain, educationally: 'But you took too long. In real life you'd be dead already.'

He clears his throat, both our ears ringing loudly, I bet.

'The illustration of the point you were making was uncalled for', he protests with a snarl.

'Annie says there is hope for you, Mycroft. I believe in her, so I'll help you with this.'

'I don't require your help.'

'Yes, you do', I say firmly and coldly. 'You and I are not alone. We are part of a bigger picture. I've got Sherlock as my best mate and you have an incredible woman as PA. Our decisions don't affect just us anymore. There is a bigger call. You will learn this, to keep both you and Annie safe.' I look onto the tip of my gun where some dark burnt gunpowder residue rests, before returning my gaze to the nation's Big Brother. 'Don't make me clean your messes again, Mycroft. And treat Annie right. Sherlock doesn't need to word over your messes... Although in fairness he seems to have enjoyed the case. Sometimes in a wicked way.'

Mycroft is looking well put off, but manages to let me know:

'On the contraire, John. My brother's highlight has been to see you save the day. I could read it in my little brother, you know?'

'Me, saving the day?' I frown. Is it a tease, a farce, a misinterpretation? 'I did nothing much.'

He smiles enigmatically. 'Don't change, John', he ends up telling me, before taking up his faithful umbrella to leave. 'Next week at the same time?' he asks then.

He sounds ominous. Like a threat. _Oh, what have I done?..._

_**.**_


	189. Chapter 189

_A__/N__:__ This one grew unplanned (it was __meant__ to be something else, but turned rebellious on me). Somehow it became a possible evolution for the unstable character Anderson. Highly unlikely this will ever make it to the show, though. I wouldn't pitch it either._

_Five parts, I think that's all. I'm trying to keep it short. It's a bit tricky seeing it's been lurching around since Christmas time and I still haven't an ending to it; I live dangerously now...__ -csf_

* * *

_**. Part One**_

'I don't understand how it doesn't bother you, John', my friend comments quietly, from his armchair, at the end of a tiresome evening, as we're warming up by 221B's fireplace.

His rich low voice startles me and I jerk my head up before frowning.

_Echoes of past conversations hit me at once. "I don't get it. Why would it bother you? What people think of __me__?" Sherlock once asked me, genuinely confused and somewhat annoyed, as the press turned on him, just before the Superintendent's men came to arrest him, and I chinned the chief, and we ran off together like fugitives. The night before St Bart's and..._

_No, I don't get it, Sherlock._ He's on about something that is seemingly similar, but not quite the same. 'What _doesn't_ bother me?'

As usual, Sherlock evades a clear answer. 'You are easily bothered, John, when I'm perceived wrongly; if someone badmouths me, or if I'm the target of gossip. You step up and try to defend me at once. Believing I... _need_ help?' he voices, tentatively, as if wondering whether he's doing the right interpretation. My friend often asks for help decoding social clues. I don't mind.

'Believing you _deserve_ it, my _defence_', I correct firmly. 'I'm your friend, Sherlock', I remind him, reaching for a nearby newspaper, but using it to disguise the fact that I'm still studying him discretely. As I expected, he shows no outward emotion to my statement. He just ponders it further, logically. Finally, my friend counterpoints:

'But if someone is unpleasant to you, John, in the same terms I described... you don't get bothered.'

_Oh, that's what he meant. _Shrugging, I assure the detective: 'I can handle it. I can even brush it off if it's not that much of a big deal.'

Sherlock frowns deeper. 'Ergo... you are not your own friend?'

I lower the newspaper, confused with that reasoning. _Too much logic can get you into trouble._ 'Sherlock, I will defend myself proportionally to the offense.' I glance away in search of an example. 'If Anderson was badmouthing me because he thinks I don't measure up to you, seeing you are now his super-hero, I will tell him straight.'

Sherlock seems taken aback by my example, but quickly files it away for now. _I think I spoke too __much__._ He then asks me: 'What if Anderson was badmouthing me?'

'I'd punch him squarely in the jaw', I ponder quietly, with smugness under my breath.

My friend's mouth twitches with a smile he can't contain.

'You didn't punch him before, when he was always against me.'

I nod; true. 'Came close, though. But I'm a peaceful man, I guess.'

'You went to war', Sherlock counters like nothing much.

'I came back', I add in the same tone.

'Against your will', he interjects again.

'Totally', I assure Sherlock.

'So, you'd punch Anderson for badmouthing me...' he starts again.

'After sufficient warning, yes', I agree.

'...but not if he was being unreasonable towards you.'

I shrug. 'Maybe Anderson is a bad example. He's jealous of me for being your sidekick, you know', I add reasonably.

As soon as those words leave me, I check myself fast, blushing. Oh, he'll never drop this now. 'Not that I consider myself your sidekick, Sherlock.' _Like I'm some second in command._ I was a captain in her Majesty's army, for crying out loud!

'Of course not', he says in his most unconvincing tone. He's winding me up now.

'Piss of!' I mutter, without putting any heart into it. He sniggers.

'That's yesterday's news by the way', Sherlock adds, overly amused. I roll my eyes, setting the newspaper aside.

_**.**_

It's three AM and my phone rings. I groan, lost in confusion, discomfort and sleepiness. My body is heavy, groggy and clammy, sticking to the creased bed sheets. I was sleeping deeply, but not peacefully. Arching one arm towards the bedside table I find the offending device and glance at the lit screen. I curse, hopelessly.

'Sherlock, do you even remember I'm upstairs?' I answer to the electronic device, mumbling my words as they come out pasty.

'Waking up briskly in the middle of the night seems to bring out the soldier in you, John', he answers in a matter-of-fact tone. I flinch. _Yeah, I punched him once, being startled out of a nightmare._

'Fair enough. You're the genius, explain what is going on, will you?'

'Lestrade has asked for our help. It can't wait, he assures us. John, must I run every thing by my _sidekick_! Important clues are being lost as we speak!'

I sigh until I run out of breath. Knew he wouldn't _leave_ _it_ alone. More than that, I can sense he's frantic as usual.

'Be down in two', I mutter to the phone, before cutting off the call and collapsing back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. Why does crime need to happen in the odd hours?

My two minutes were up when I got down to the kitchen. Sherlock was barely containing his impatience _(as if shoes were not a priority in his world; but __he__ has shoes on so I guess he never even went to bed, the bloody vampire!)_, handing me my jacket and a chocolate bar for good measure.

'Eat that!' he scolds me at once. 'I need you awake. A sleepy assistant is of no use to me. The sugar shall perk you up.'

I store away the odd gift in my pocket, for what it's worth, we're already racing down the stairs and off Baker Street.

The good thing about crime solving at the early hours of the morning is that traffic in London is significantly abated. Sherlock, being himself, pulled over a cab as if 221's exterior door was directly connected to the cab company, and in seven minutes we arrive at the address Greg Lestrade provided Sherlock.

The cabbie drops us by the blue and white crime scene delimitation tape. Greg, Sally, Anderson – the whole team is there and we approach them carefully, so not to disturb the scene that is still being processed by Anderson.

_Great_, I think sarcastically, as I spot Sherlock giving the forensic a measuring look. Shouldn't have brought Anderson up in conversation tonight. I mean: yesterday.

Luckily we are all grown-ups in here. _Sort of._

'Lestrade!' Sherlock calls, not without some smugness. He knows he's being called to a particularly complicated case. There'd be no other reason why our usually thoughtful friend wouldn't wait till decent hours to bring the Baker Street's duo on board.

The grey haired DI turns swiftly as he hears his name, surprise displayed honestly in his face.

'Sherlock, John...' he nods, patiently. 'One of these days, you need to tell me how he does it, John', Greg comments offhandedly as Sherlock immediately sets off to work, swirling around the crime scene, looking up, down and all around for clues. All through his acrobatics he keeps his most serious expression.

'Does what?' I ask blankly to Greg, still watching Sherlock.

'Know about a crime scene before we have arrived here.'

I frown. That doesn't make sense. Unless Sherlock felt that Sherlock needed to lie to me and tell me our friend had asked for our help in order to justify waking me up in the middle of the night. That's more naïve and thoughtful than usual-Sherlock has got me accustomed to. Possibly, Sherlock has been hacking into the police database of occurrences and despatched units yet again. It would be easily explained in his crime-fighting insomnias.

I can only assume Sherlock must have been severely wound-up and he couldn't sleep. Not that he ever sleeps much anyway. Which makes the times he can't sleep – and he actually wanted to – the more frustrating.

'Feel free, John', Greg adds, sensing that my standing around comes from respect for authority and I'm politely waiting for an invitation.

Sherlock has already gone in._ He__ never waits for express consent, he's Sherlock._

I nod to the DI, and he moves on to do his job. It's cold, the middle of the night, and I've just been dragged to a crime scene where I'm not even needed. That makes me grumpy. All in all, I deserved to be in bed and—

The whole world jolts as I'm suddenly grabbed from behind, a strong arm is wrapped up tightly against my trachea and I can't breathe, let alone scream or call for help. Powerless, I try to fight my attacker off at once, knowing that I stand at the far side of the crime scene and no one is watching, no one sees me, I'm so close and yet so unreachable. Suddenly I'm released from the iron clawed grasp and I tumble forwards, falling on my knees, gasping for air, my bruised throat still refusing to let out a sound. Someone shoves a wet cloth over my nose and mouth. Chloroform! That's very old school. It'll knock me out fast. I try not to breathe it in, but I'm now desperate for air. I grab the strong arm to fight my opponent off but he's too strong against my weakening body, my strengths are failing... _Sherlock will be so cross with me..._

_I'm getting kidnapped again._ I blink to shake off unconsciousness. _Who wants me this time?_

I may never get to know, as darkness envelops me.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	190. Chapter 190

_(Useless) A/N (to be bypassed at will): Had a flat tire on the motorway today; it wasn't even me driving and somehow that made it all scarier. You know, what could have been, had there not been some traffic and had we been going faster._

_Been making me wonder why am I alive; I really don't get it. If there's a mission for me in the future, for instance._

_Actually, I've got it all figured it out since I was seven or eight years old. You see, I'm needed to pick up a set of keys the person in front of me dropped on the street, return them, and that will remind that person the stove is on and it will save their family house from burning down. Or I'll say good morning on an elevator and that will brighten the mood of a genius scientist having a bad day, and they'll discover the cure for cancer. If not one of these, it'll be any other inconsequential thing that has nothing to do with me at all. Probably I'll never know about it._

_With a bit of luck it will only happen at the end of a very long life. Which would mean I could be not nice in the meantime and only nice in my old age. But you know, right now I could be tripping a jogger on the street, and the jogger would topple over a pushchair and it'd stroll down the street, narrowly avoiding an incoming car, out of control, thus saving a baby's life. That would make my (pathetic) evil gesture have a lifesaving effect._

_When I was a child - a weird child, as demonstrated - I was hoping to be an undiscovered genius in some area that would make me great. No such luck. It's back to the theory where I'm a random accessory for the Meaning of life._

_Looks legit to me._

_Well, carrying on. Enough with the random rants. __Second part__, mostly written a while now. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part Two**_

_I get kidnapped far too often._

The thought flashes through my consciousness as I jerk awake, making me giggle, deranged.

_Can't giggle, it's a crime scene!_

My mad laughing spurs only redouble. _Oh, Sherlock, what have I done?_

I open my eyes blearily to the darkness around me. Swallowing my panic I realise I'm alone, centre stage on a play of the unknown. I try to rub my eyes, to dissipate the fogginess and help me discern shapes in the pitch dark space, but my hand just gets forcefully halted. I can now sense the restrains on my wrists that must have been here all along. Come to think about it, I'm lying down but it doesn't feel like floor under me. I try to move my legs but my ankles are restrained too.

Exploring fingertips extended as far as I can reach, I get to the end of the solid surface where I'm laying down. There's an edge of a paper thin layer like a sheet, and underneath the crinkly nastiness of thick plastic over a cold metal slab.

It feels like an old style examination table, if I can tell with my experience as a doctor.

_It also feels like a B list horror movie from the old days._

_This is so not good._

Who would place me in this scenario; and what for? What could be the reason?

_Sherlock._ He's usually the reason she my life is in danger. I would go so far as to say that after the war, all of the bigger danger in my life revolves around my association with the Baker Street's detective.

_Wouldn't want it any other way._

I need to remain calm. Sherlock won't leave me here. He'll come rescue me. Never fails. Soon he'll come through that door, making some lame joke about how I can't keep myself from being kidnapped every fortnight (sheer exaggeration). All the while, his eyes may tremble with the emotion he can't quite suppress. Despite all his cold façade, I'm the one _thing_ in the world we won't let go of.

He'll come, I'm sure.

_He could hurry up already._

Sherlock is either waiting for a ransom demand to better track the culprits - I can wait - or maybe he's letting Scotland Yard have a go in my kidnap - for educational purposes alone.

_I need to be patient._

_**.**_

_Sometimes I'm a bit volatile._

Could have patiently waited for Sherlock to come and do _his_ _thing_ \- and possibly that would be the medically advisable option to chose, given my post-anaesthetic haze status. Instead, I'm getting myself out of my own troubles.

I've been Sherlock's sidekick for a long time, and a soldier for even longer. I can take care of myself.

_It will be a good while before Sherlock hears the last of this not showing up business..._

With my dominant left hand I've unscrewed the wrist restraint from under the table (the screw was rusty, it wasn't too hard to force it lose). Whoever masterminded this job didn't think it through much. With one hand free I could stretch for the other, and then for the ankles.

It seems so easy that I wonder if this is some sort of trick. I've had my fair share of odd confrontations with mentally deranged criminal genius. If I can say so myself, Moriarty would have done a far better job.

It's only as I put my feet on the ground, that I notice some swaying on its surface. The whole room seems less stable than I thought; and I'm not as concussed, there's an actual reason for this annoying feeling of sea sickness. I'm in a boat.

Sherlock would hate being kidnapped and taken to a boat. He's not fond of sea faring. He tends to get nauseous with the water undulation. Unless he's got a really good case. Then he won't even notice. It's funny how the mind works.

This small room has a low ceiling and only a small wooden door at the far end. Looks like an old rusting yacht, converted to one final task of holding kidnapped Sherlock's sidekick.

It must have been an opportunistic hideout. This whole business is feeling less and less planned by the minute. Not that I'm complaining, not really, it just makes my escape easier...

_**.**_

It takes me a couple of hours to fall back to my old routine, from which I was yanked out briskly. A cab (I decided I could afford the luxury) drops me by the Yard's crime scene, and for a couple of moments it looks like the work has flowed independently from my personal circumstances. The same forensics team on the ground, the same familiar faces from the Yard. I look all around in search of that one special, distinctive silhouette I care to locate more than others. I find it ever so effortlessly. It's as if my eyes trail automatically towards my friend as an extension of me, after all we've been through together.

Sherlock is not alone, though.

Head held high, trailing ever so slightly behind the detective, Anderson is looking more and more comfortable as a forensic technician working at a crime scene claimed by Sherlock Holmes. He looks confident, and clever, and insightful; not at all the usual stumbling mess I've grown accustomed to see after Reichenbach.

I believe Anderson felt guilty. Slowly but steadily, he let himself decline in those days. Greg was the one who always insisted on keeping in touch, being supportive. I now wish I could have done the same, but truth be told, I had too much to handle as it was, dealing with my own grief and confusion, discarded alone in a foreign and unrelenting London. My recollections of those days are little more than a blur. It's as if all reality receded under a veil of blankness, because it would have been too much for this former soldier to handle otherwise. It would have broken me. _Sometimes I'm not convinced it didn't. _Some days I wake up I the morning convinced to my firmest belief that it has been a dream. Sherlock's comeback. I think Sherlock knows that by now. Sometimes I go down the stairs quietly and check up on him, working at his microscope or fast asleep in his bed, then return thankful and eased back to my room. On occasions he's out when I wake up, sometimes I pretend that I really need to ask him what he did to the milk; and he knows I don't take milk in my morning coffee. He always answers the phone, though, and listens to my telling off for spoiling the milk in weird science experiments. Any other person might have stopped answering my early morning phone calls. Or stopped messing with the milk. That he won't excuse himself from any of the two is a vivid reminder that those two years he was gone are now put behind us.

_It's strange how it was so much easier to internalize him gone than coming back. It's as if I can't believe me to be so lucky._

I must remember I wasn't the only one thinking him gone. Greg believed it too, when he heard my witness recount of Sherlock at St Bart's, seconded by Molly's postmortem report. What a wicked thing for Sherlock to have to do to Greg.

Anderson and the rest of his team must have learn it from Greg. Sally, the second in command, never showed much emotion about it. She always saw Sherlock as a ticking time bomb anyway. Anderson, though... With all the rumors he helped spread about Sherlock, he must have felt responsible in a way.

Greg has told me since that Anderson has tried to prove to him that Sherlock was alive. How insightful, from the man that always missed the most important details at the crime scenes. Greg has wondered if Sherlock left any clue behind just to mess with Anderson, purposefully. I told him, Sherlock didn't have the time nor could he have done it for the risk of blowing his whole operation. Anderson wasn't worth that risk, certainly. He must have hit upon the truth quite by accident. I'm sure that if Sherlock was to plant clues that he was alive he'd aim at a different public. Greg or me.

Of course Anderson was the one no one listened to; and there's a shocking symmetry to his position and Sherlock's last days before Reichenbach.

Could it be that my vindictive friend wasted his time selfishly mocking Anderson and driving him mad...der?

_A phone call, a letter, some kind of sign from Sherlock. What a difference it would have made._

_I got nothing._

_Some days I still want to scream at Sherlock out of the blue about spoiled milk._

_**.**_

Tired of being an outside spectator, I trail quietly towards DI Lestrade, that stands his ground supervising the scene from the delimitation line. Weight planted equally on his two legs, hands behind his back, shoulders slumping slightly under the exhaustion from the late hour, grey hair turning silver under the emergency lights of the police cars parked on the periphery of the scene.

'How cosy they look, Greg', I comment acridly, as I come to join the detective inspector.

Greg jumps at my comments and does a double take on me, before he calls out: 'John! We've been desperately looking for you, mate! Where have you been? We thought you had been kidnapped, you Muppet!'

I give him a very heavy look. 'I've been busy, having been kidnapped for real.'

'How did you get out?' he asks me, bewildered, trying to take me in more attentively. Greg's actually a good man and he works himself up as he sees the blood smudges on my black jacket. 'Jeez, John, are you alright?'

'Fine, I'm fine, don't fuss', I wave him off at once. 'I came here to tell off the git.'

Greg frowns, looking bewildered for the whole world to see. 'You mean Sherlock?'

'Yup.'

'He's been going mental without you, John', the DI assures me with deep brown eyes. 'Sherlock is not quite the same whenever you're not there. It's a funny thing to watch.' I give him a depreciative look, but Greg holds his ground. 'I mean it, John. He comes to the Yard or a scene without you and he's not the same. With you around he softens, I suppose. He doesn't show off as much, and he's kinder to everyone, and generally happier. You should have seen the nightmare he was before you came along, and how he still is a bit like that when you're not around.'

'Greg, I'm not his_ handle_r. I don't make him _behave_.'

'No, it's not that. He genuinely becomes _nicer_ when you're around. It's like he's _happier_. Mate, I've known Sherlock for many years and I tell you he's never been happier then when you're around, giggling like school kids on a freaking crime scene.'

I focus hard on Greg, all of a sudden my haste to go to Sherlock and tell him off has become less than a priority.

'John, I can tell you're jealous, and I don't think I've often seen you get jealous. You think Sherlock is a bit too happy with Anderson right now, playing crime scenes.'

'Don't be ridiculous', I snap.

Greg's eyes soften. 'Perhaps you need to go there are check what those two idiots are investigating, John. I think it'd do you good.'

'Nope', I refuse. 'Do tell the genius I got myself un-kidnapped, will you? I'm going home.'

I turn around briskly but Greg won't let me storm off. Grabbing me by the arm, he warns: 'John, don't get yourself worked up, mate. It's not worth it.'

'Greg, let go of me.'

'In a minute I will', he sustains bravely. 'I've seen that look on your face before and I don't like it any more now than I did then. And I can tell you that this time you're wrong.'

'What look?'

'The one of someone feeling dejected and hurt but not accepting it so putting up a front, that's the look I mean', he actually dares to say it. 'Come with me', he commands, fatherly, pushing me along with him. 'You two need to talk.'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	191. Chapter 191

_A/N: Still unsure where I'm going with this, silly me._

_Meaning of life still unknown. No more road accidents either, so I can call it even, I suppose. -csf_

_2nd A/N: Tried smoothing out some inconsistencies, kindly pointed out. No major alteration done. My belated apologies. -csf_

* * *

_**. Part Three**_

DI Greg Lestrade forces me to come over to Sherlock, in a well-meant stubborn pedagogical move. It's not so much the strong hand he keeps on my arm as he directs me forward - and I'd punch him gladly for it - it's his imprinted belief that I need to do this, confront Sherlock at the earliest chance.

'Hold on to your horses, mate! The two of you make my hair go grey...'

It's then that Sherlock first lays eyes on me. It's also my first chance to have a proper look at my friend. At a close range, there's a distinct desperation in his features that sets them ablaze with a fiery dangerous energy I couldn't see before. Deep storms and treacherous battles lay ahead of this man as he looks like he breathes fire and danger for a living. Only his gaze contradicts his demeanour somewhat, as his light coloured eyes have been casted with shadows and look frail and lost as he looks up to the newcomer with a volatile temper display.

He stops short of his brisk words about to be pronounced when he sets his eyes on me.

'John?' he sounds so lost, so confused. As if he was a soldier expecting a deadly battle and being held by an unexpected ceasefire. His fire extinguishing to a pile of ashes. He hints at a gentle smile.

'Oh, yes. So you do remember me?' I shrug, pretending to ponder the odds.

'John.' He stands up straighter suddenly, as if he's just been slapped.

'Hi, Anderson', I add, to the forensic with the drained pale face.

'Hi, hm, Sherlock and I were just now-'

I don't let him finish.

'Oh, first name basis already? Ain't that sweet!'

Sherlock finally looks away from me, and to Anderson. His expression is guarded and controlled, once again. I feel a tinge of sadness deep inside, as I used to be the one that always got Sherlock to drop this _I'm-better-than-you-lot_ expression.

_I guess those were the old days._

'Yeah, I'm going home now', I settle, squaring my shoulders.

'Let's go', Sherlock seconds me at once, fixing his attention back on me. It unnerves me incredibly.

'Not Baker Street', I firmly dictate. _Don't know where else, but not Baker Street. _That was back in the days Sherlock didn't do crime scenes with just about anybody. _Even Anderson will do these days._

Sherlock's gaze softens. 'John, where did you go?' he asks me directly.

'Fishing on the docks.'

Greg clears his throat, meaningfully. It's easy to ignore him.

'John', Sherlock pronounces my name carefully. Deep voice and gentleness that would hint that I'm a precious thing he wants to keep careful hold of. Well, if it that's so, he should have gone get me. I was all alone and had to fend for myself. How easy it would have been for Sherlock to deduce my location and come help me out of there. Maybe he didn't feel like getting wet. Or he dislikes the gunpowder smell now. Maybe he was busy, being showered by praises by a redeemed Anderson. I wouldn't know. _In fact I don't want to know._ There's a gut twist that I can't repress. It's disgust, and anger. Sherlock abandoned me. He does that. Walks out of crime scenes leaving me behind. Not even the first time. When will I ever learn? He was onto something, before. _Alone is best._

'John, focus', he leads on, all his attention irrefutably pinned on me. He forgot me when I needed him. Now he contradicts himself by overdoing his scrutiny. _He can't turn it on and off, expecting me to make sense of his whims!_

For some old knee jerk reaction I answer him, honestly, saving my sarcasm. But I won't look him in the eyes. 'I got kidnapped, Sherlock. Yes, again. Kidnapped. Got a bit tired of waiting for you there, in vain. So I got myself out of there. Sadly, it involved some gunshots, swimming in the cold water and storming in on enemy grounds unarmed before I got here. And you know the worse part, Sherlock? I thought you were in trouble too. Turns out, you didn't even noticed I left.'

'Of course I did!' He snaps viciously, in the first and only true display of emotion. He immediately grounds himself. 'Here.' He quietly pushes his phone into my hands, unlocked.

'What? You tried to ring me?' I ask, viciously. _Is that all?_

'Maybe you need glasses', he mocks.

'Wouldn't be the only one, Mr Magnifying Glass!'

I throw my angry tirade at my friend and look down on his phone, fuming. What I see there breaks my heart.

Incoming message - from Idiot Fat Oaf - Target spotted on cctv. Making his way to you now. Tracing culprits as we speak. -MH

Sent message - from sender - No need. Help appreciated. Conniving with accomplice right now. Please follow target instead, make sure he's safe. -SH

The words "Help", "Please" and "Safe" feel so foreign in a written record from Sherlock to his brother, Mycroft. If nothing else proves to me that Sherlock felt at the end of his rope than this would.

And has I was making my way back, Sherlock had his best men on the job of keeping an eye on me, the one commanding the whole nation's secret services on his call.

Sherlock played a part in sticking around the crime scene where I got kidnapped. Studying not one but too crime scenes at once. Intertwined. Inextricable. A murder and a kidnap. _Why stay?_

He's trying to get revenge on the culprits. Looking for evidence and at the same time managing my kidnap status via his brother. _Cold-blooded strategy._

It's nice; but I still feel like a second thought, not a priority in this picture.

But Sherlock is so fast at getting clues and issuing deductions; _why is he still here?_ Usually he can make sense of a crime scene before I even caught up with his long footsteps, and by the time I reach him, only Lestrade's insistence to have him explain himself keeps the detective from briskly turning around and storming off in blazing glory.

What takes him this long? _Is he so distracted?_

It finally dawns on me. 'You knew I was going to get kidnapped.'

I'm not facing Sherlock, much less Greg.

This is about the forensic technician and me.

Anderson almost whimpers at the soft accusation I made.

'They said they had business to run with you. I didn't think they would-' he stops short, and blinks. 'I didn't think. I wanted a chance to be Sherlock's assistant. I believed they'd keep you busy for a while and I'd be able to study Mr Holmes' methods.'

He's "Mr Holmes" again. Anderson doesn't even dare to call him "Sherlock" anymore.

I smile bitterly as the forensic still waits for an answer. 'They kept me busy alright.' _Understatement__ of the year 2016._

Anderson looks uncomfortably at the towering presence of Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes, coming to stand on each side of him. 'Did they... hurt you, John?'

'Doctor Watson to you', Greg chides, elbowing him, as if my proper title is the least he could do.

I'm more disturbed by the shy awkwardness on Anderson that compares him to a child in need of approval. Somehow, in the fanatic forensic technician's admiration for Sherlock, he has become a little like him. Detached from grown-up emotions and in a world of his own.

_And who'd want to be like that?_

In his emulation of the great Sherlock Holmes, Anderson has forgotten two essential things. Sherlock's genius is the reason why people put up with his abrasive behaviour before they see beyond the mask, and Sherlock's true and caring concern for an old soldier comes from the great heart within. They both define Sherlock, and are as iconic as the deerstalker (which he hardly uses anyway).

In the end, it wasn't for money, power or any of the usual motivators. This was about recognition from someone he admires and is unachievable. Anderson wanted to work by Sherlock's side, as an equal, and I was in the way. He needn't necessarily want me hurt, and it was easy to believe his little part on my kidnap was inconsequential.

'You knew this all along?' I ask Sherlock.

He shrugs minutely, as if excusing himself. 'You pointed it out to me, John, in your insightfulness. But you didn't see more into it, because that's not how you are. There's an innocent streak to you, John, that clashes incredibly with your military career.'

'I was following orders, in the army', I answer instinctively.

'Your escape from captivity just now contradicts that statement, John', he points out, before letting it go.

'And you played along, Sherlock? Have him as your faithful assistant?' _Instead of me?_

He tilts his head and darkens his voice. 'I'd play along any game, till I'd see you safe, John. You had rescued yourself, how could I let all your unilateral effort go to waste for idealist ethics alone?' he asks me. Then, gulping drily, he adds, diverting his gaze: 'I didn't realise you had been taken, John. Not for a good while. I'm used to... always having you around. When we ascertained you were gone... Mycroft was engaged at once. He commands a lot of cctv cameras and found you easily. Or maybe it was a tracing signal', he adds, searching for a particular reaction of light-hearted anger.

I glare at my friend. 'I'm not a pet. I'm not microchipped. I don't emit a tracing signal.'

'Hm.'

I wish he'd stop messing with me. We've got more important things to discuss.

Sherlock might have read my mind, because he moves on: 'I trust you got the kidnappers contained?'

I nod sharply. Greg Lestrade comes out of his stupor as he watched our soap opera type of interaction, and volunteers: 'That's my cue. Give me an address, John, and tell me how many ambulances to summon.'

I glance at the DI, spot his notepad in his hand, and grab it off him. Scribbling the address at the docks and some details - "six foot four bodyguard at top deck with wound to the head caused by a blunt object, tattooed fisherman at the boat's control panel hut tied up to the steering wheel, armed man with riffle across the road at warehouse vanished as I stormed in on said warehouse, twenty stones identical twin brothers unconscious and locked up in the boat cabin" - I glare at Sherlock occasionally, just to make sure he doesn't get distracted. I'm angry, and I want him to notice that.

As soon as I hand back the notepad to the DI, he calls on sergeant Donovan to act upon the information in giving. _Greg's just being nosey now._

'You don't wish to go back to Baker Street', Sherlock recalls.

_Yes, I did say that, didn't I?_ 'Not really', I allege, fidgeting where I stand for the first time.

It hits me that I'm stating I want to part with Baker Street and my best friend, and for the first time, I wonder if I'm not getting carried away.

Also, I really don't want to let those two be new BFFs at Baker Street, it feels like the ultimate betrayal.

Sherlock continues his remark with nonchalance casualness. 'Because I'd say it's the ideal place to have a nice catch-up conversation with my new assistant...'

Sherlock sports one of his creepiest smiles ever as he turns to Phillip Anderson, and it throughout warms my mood.

'I suppose I could do with a strong cup of tea', I join in.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	192. Chapter 192

_A/N: Well, this update has taken longer than I'd intended. If I say that (almost) two other stories have crept up meantime will I be somewhat pardoned? –csf_

* * *

_**. Part Four**_

It's a cold atmosphere by the time we get back to Baker Street. The unlikely trio is not conducing of deep conversations and I avoid confronting Sherlock. Which, naturally, shortened my patience even more.

Before we left the crime scene, Greg Lestrade has forcefully pulled me aside. He told me bluntly that I'm being paranoid and obsessed, blinded by jealousy _– did I leave anything out?_ He also forced a standard Yard blanket over my shoulders because my clothes were drenched and I was beginning to shake in earnest.

'_John, mate, you're in no conditions to make decisions tonight. To be honest, you're not even yourself right now. Whatever decisions you want to make, they can wait until morning, right?'_

He means leaving Baker Street. I hinted at that. Greg was shocked. He asked me to keep that plan from Sherlock till my mind was absolutely made up.

Greg is here with us now. He claimed he wasn't as needed at the crime scene being the Yard's leading detective inspector, as he was needed at 221B to act as a mediator. Perhaps he's more insightful than Sherlock and I have been giving him credit for.

Anderson came along as well, under Sherlock's personal insistence. There's some mischievous joy in the consulting detective as he observes Anderson stepping in to 221B. Sure the forensic technician knows the place already – he's been there on a fake drug's bust once – but at the time he wasn't proficient in Sherlock's methods of observation and deduction. The fascinated look in Anderson's features as he cautiously steps in to the living room is a source of amusement and pride to the detective.

Perhaps Anderson is afraid there are bobby traps in the living room; _we had to give up on those, given that they threatened the clients' lives more than the real life cases they brought us_. Or that he's walking into a science experiment in progress, I should know about those; _John,_ _you're stepping on the concentrated sulphuric acid I poured on the ground to see how long it takes to penetrate the floorboards and leak onto Mrs Hudson's flat, it's going to skew the results!_ Most probably he's just too overwhelmed with the scene he's been obsessing about since he started idolatrising Sherlock Holmes. He basks at the sight of the papers on the cluttered table, the Persian knife struck over bills to pay on the mantelpiece, the multicoloured solutions in volumetric flasks in the kitchen. There's an excitement and vibrancy building up in Sherlock's fan that irks my nerves and doesn't allow me to overcome the fact that he was one of the instigators of my kidnap.

_This is what Anderson wanted; he's got a shot at being Sherlock's sidekick._

_And Sherlock played right into it._

'Anderson', Sherlock directs briskly, 'find me a map of London and pinpoint the location of the crime scene and the docks where John was held.'

I frown. 'Why?' I interrupt. It's not like Sherlock needs visual aids. He can do all the mental maps in less than a second. Is this to help Anderson along? Is he mentoring him to have Anderson take my place?

'Anderson, now', Sherlock insists. I huff and turn away. Lestrade is already making himself comfortable, taking a seat in Sherlock's modernist armchair, looking at us in full interest as if were acting some theatre play for an audience of two.

Or just of one, as Anderson recognises: 'I'll go get a map, Sherlock. From the nearest convenience store. I'll be back in no time!'

The forensic technician runs out of the door, leaving me pacing the middle of the living room in short angered footsteps that the carpet muffles somewhat.

Not containing myself anymore, I stop and, getting real close to the detective, I hiss at him: 'So you just decide to cohort with the enemy while I'm absent, Sherlock? Act like nothing is up, pretend I just went on holidays?'

Sherlock stands strong and says nothing at all while I'm ranting about his actions. He won't even have the decency of looking ashamed, derisive, or interested at all. _This is like all those times about spoiled milk, isn't it? He thinks it'll all go away faster if he lets me release my anger._

Now I'm wondering if he's even paying attention at all.

It's not the first time I deal with an absent-minded Sherlock as a kneejerk reaction to me talking to him. There may have been a time when even this would have been a blessing for I was sure I'd never have him again in my life, so I should be thankful. Instead, Sherlock keeps making me so angry, I—

'John!'

Sherlock's sharp voice is no more than a thunder rumbling in the distance, and I could swear that I'm falling, but gravity is deceitful and I feel so light. I also never hit the ground. Darkness encloses me at last, as I let go of the world.

.

'John has been through a terrible ordeal, Sherlock', I hear Greg's voice muddled from afar. 'He needs to be checked by a doctor and to have some rest.'

'Nonsense, John is a doctor. He would know if there was something wrong with him.'

Consciousness returns suddenly, but I'm still feeling drowsy so I linger on the long sofa, eyes flickering open from time to time, collecting myself limb by limb, slowly fully coming to.

None of my friends notices the change in me. They seem to be locked in some important discussion of their own.

'I don't think John expected to pass out. Doctors make mistakes sometimes. He could have missed something', Greg starts again.

'John is a very good doctor', Sherlock insists, drily.

'Sherlock...' There's some exasperation in the DI's voice. 'It's okay if you're scared. You thought you were going to lose John. And when he came back we all saw he was not himself. I've hardly ever seen him so mad at you, Sherlock.'

'I have', he declares calmly, with no particular intonation. 'When I came back to London. He was angry because I had gone away.'

'He wasn't angry because you were gone, he was angry because he hadn't gone with you.'

'I was careful enough to make him think I was dead, so he couldn't follow me.'

'Yeah, well, some days I worried he wanted to go there as well...'

I shiver, realising the deep pit I once was in, and how utterly transparent that was to a good friend, all the while I thought I was putting up a good front.

Sherlock also reacts to that thought with fervent energy. 'Not John, never John,' he impresses his words with the deep rhythm and strength of his belief. 'He's stronger than you or me', Sherlock declares, full of faith and honesty.

I can't sense Greg's answer. Instead, my return to consciousness is caught on.

'I think he's waking up now. Do us a favour and go easy on him, Sherlock.' The detective grumps nevertheless.

I blink, as the indoor lights assault my eyes and blur my vision. Immediately a kind soul dimmers the ceiling lights, appeasing my eyes. I let my eyes wander around, gathering my whereabouts. Then I curse under my breath, for good measure. I had told them: not Baker Street, I don't need rest, there's nothing wrong with me. Here I am, sprawled on the living room's long sofa. _There's not much going on tonight that bends to my will, is there?_

'John, can you tell us how you feel, mate?' Greg opens fire with the pertinent questions. Sherlock glances to him, gulps drily and focus all his attention on me.

Nauseated? Weak? Shivering cold? A bit of all of those. Instead, I answer: 'Am fine, guys. Keep off, will ya?'

'John.' It's Sherlock's time to call my name and there's a gentleness in his voice that he doesn't usually let show, as he ignores Greg altogether.

'Maybe I need to take it easy. There's nothing permanently wrong with me, though. Do you understand that, Sherlock?' I demand him to answer me, looking him in the eyes for the first time ever since the kidnap debacle.

Sherlock's like this. He needs some things spelled out, calmly. He might drive himself up the walls if I don't assure him I'm not dying or something equally stupid.

I realise it's not just now. Sherlock's expression looks haggard and haunted, and it stems from the crime scene. He needs the same reassurance as to me not being upset with him. _Of course I am, but only a little._ He needs to hear me say it because he won't read it from my social clues.

'Don't know if you know this, but it's been a long night, Sherlock.'

He fixes a disbelieving gaze upon me, as if I could be so stupid. _His night was long too._

Sherlock cuts to the chase. 'You are still angry with me. Because you think you were alone... I do not know how you proceeded in life without me, John. Those are not even good average-quality deductions. _Of course you weren't alone, John!_ You are never alone, _never_ _again_', he tells me with some briskness. 'I will always be there with you, John. I saw you through all of your journey.'

'Why didn't you let me know?'

'I suspected you might be observed.'

'Some hint, some indication you were there, that I wasn't alone...' I lament I couldn't have that.

Sherlock's gaze grows softer. 'I didn't enjoy it either, John. I wished to let you know of my presence.'

_He's speaking of tonight; when it could have been over a year ago, after Reichenbach._

I look away. 'I didn't see you.'

'No, I hid at every turn. I was there in every cctv camera, in every beggar at a corner, in every patrol car in London.'

'Hm...' Greg Lestrade interrupts at that. 'Sherlock...?'

'I didn't mean that, I lied', he says, unconvincingly. And to me he adds: 'Of course I didn't lie.'

'Geez, I'm going to pretend I hear none of that', Greg gets up, upset, from Sherlock's chair and walks off to the kitchen, were we hear the water kettle get ticked on again.

'Sherlock, I mean I didn't believe you there, I didn't have the faith. Not the time you were away, and not now', I confess tiredly.

'Apologies accepted', he tells me with a straight face.

_What?_ I stand up a bit more on from the sofa very fast. Since when do I need to apologise before he does?

I take a deep breath, frustrated and impatient, forcing myself to count to ten silently. This is Sherlock Holmes, the blundering social genius. Of course he would _dare_!

Slowly a small smile erupts intrusively. This is the return to our natural friendship, the one we can never stray away from long, the one that unites us as two sides of the same coin.

'Sherlock...' I still conclude my lecture, 'next time don't forget to use your phone to let me know I'm not alone. I... I can't read minds, okay?'

'How could I, John? You were stripped off your phone and ID. It's basic "bad guy routine 101".' His face is slightly annoyed I haven't noticed that before, as he sees me pat my pockets in utter surprise, when suddenly his expression changes abruptly. 'John, that's it! John, you are amazing! That's the clue we needed to get to your kidnappers, we'll have your phone traced! You are extraordinary!'

His face is lit up in a beautiful energetic smile, with just a hint of agony as he knows he needs to pace himself to reach the solution, the one ending he feels so tangibly in his fingers already, that is still a few practical moves away from us. I find myself smiling as well, for if something could assure me that between Sherlock and I we are doing alright, it'd be one of these beautiful moments of _I-solved-the-case_ deduction moments he seems to share only for my benefit.

I'm not jealous all of a sudden. I know nothing has changed, not really.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	193. Chapter 193

_A/N: Sorry, it's a bit long. Last part for Anderson's plotline. –csf_

* * *

_**. Part Five**_

The thrice boiled water was ready and willing for the tea making, I'd expect. However, Greg had abandoned the kettle heartlessly. The water was now cooling down to give room for a more preferred, less inconspicuous, watch over his two friends, solving their differences in the living room. And right now, after some awkward, unplanned soul baring, patching up meant that Sherlock and I stood quietly staring each other's way. None of us knowing how to approach the precious argument or how to move forward.

'I may have overreacted, Sherlock', I admit straight to the second button of his shirt. 'When you didn't show up, Sherlock, it brought back... memories of when you... were away.'

'Dead, you mean', the socially awkward genius is not shy to surmise. 'Not literally', he adds, after a few seconds of tense silence, for scientific accuracy's sake.

'I was on my own, then. If I looked over my shoulder, you were nowhere to be seen. If I got into trouble, I had no backup. If I got hurt in that trouble, there was no one to help me up the stairs or to dress my wounds.'

His gaze darkens. 'I was not aware you had been chased down by our enemies. Mycroft had strict instructions to –'

I cut his worries short: 'Not that much bravery in my fights, Sherlock. Mostly I recall pub brawls. For a while I was too recognisable and the average British male had its say about Sherlock Holmes. To all that called you a fraud to your face, I gave them my say.'

My friend takes a deep reassuring breath. It comes across as shaky.

'I'll have Mycroft keep an eye on pubs as well, from now on', he says, unemotionally, in a statement of protection that contradicts his dispassionate stance.

I smirk. 'That really ought to make his day... No need, Sherlock. I can usually handle my own. I'm a war veteran after all. I made sure people would keep that in mind the next time they saw me.'

He ponders me for a second then, impulsively, he starts:

'Look, John, I—'

'Stop', I interrupt him. 'Please', I add more softly. 'It's water under the bridge.'

'It's not, if it makes you angry with me when you can't see me next to you in your hour of need.'

'I say we talked enough about that', I cut, aghast.

He looks away, grumpy. Then, approaching the living room window he asks, indolently, over the shoulder: 'You said "people", John. That's not specific. How many persons were they?'

I smile. To Sherlock is never too late to try to make things right. A thousand apologies and they aren't enough in his mind. They're enough on my mind, though.

'Instinctively, you still don't really trust me, John', he points out with the sharpness of someone who just read my mind.

I decide to challenge him. 'Were you planning on getting me out of captivity or did you think I could handle it?'

'The two thoughts are not mutually exclusive. Yes to both. I knew you could get out on your own and I'd have gone to get you. Turns out, when I realised you were absent, you were already making your way out.'

I blink, tiredly, and decide to take a seat in my armchair before I repeat the fainting debacle of earlier.

'What took you so long?' I voice at last, in a weaker voice – more raw in emotion – than I'd intended.

Sherlock's lips spasm in a simile of a smile, too brief. 'The case, John.'

'Only a good case could distract you that much.'

'Indeed', he admits. 'And it only became more fascinating when it intertwined with your abduction, John.'

_Oh._ I blink a few more times. 'I think you need to tell me all about it. But... Anderson? Isn't he gone a bit long for a map of London?'

'And a useless map, as well. Still', he shrugs, 'it gave our double agent the chance to go confront the other side and ask why he wasn't in on all of the game...'

My eyes have flown open wide.

'You—?'

'Oh, yes. I'm playing our double agent with a change of heart.' He shrugs again. 'Seemed only fitting.'

'I thought you trusted him now.'

He nods quietly. 'Anderson will search for his answers, as any sane individual would.'

I tilt my head as a comment to Anderson's sanity.

He nods, my point getting across.

'And', I add smartly, 'I though you didn't trust just anyone.'

Sherlock corrects the bent corner of the rug with the tip of his shoe, attentively. 'I assign my trust sparingly, John. Doesn't contradict the fact that Anderson has become a much more interesting acquaintance in the past couple of hours.'

I sigh, with the deep suspicion that this is going to be a very long day, the one just breaking over Baker Street.

Greg finally makes his way over with the delayed tea.

_**.**_

My phone is turned off or destroyed, and therefore untraceable for now. We keep that option open, none the less, while we ponder other ways to get to the truth.

'What can you recall from the crime scene, John?' Sherlock starts, as he steeples his fingers in his customary thinking pose. He won't sit down, too much jittery energy coursing through his veins.

I watch him raptly from the comfort of my armchair, knowing that Lestrade and Anderson are doing a good enough job as it is of spreading a map over the much abused wall above the sofa. _It'd be more impressive if Anderson had brought back more than an A3 diagram of London's boroughs and main tourist attractions for £2._

'I recall the crime scene got me woken up in the middle of the night', I say sarcastically.

'Hardly, John. _I_ did that', Sherlock corrects me, missing the point.

'How did you know about the crime scene?' I question him back.

He looks like he'd wish to hold the information back. 'Anderson texted me.'

'And you didn't find that odd?' I ignore the close presence of the forensic technician. Never mind, he already thinks I'm jealous _of him_.

'He didn't kidnap you on either of the two crime scenes he tipped me off about before...'

'Lucky me', I comment, dubiously.

Greg intrudes naturally on our conversation: 'I let you guys in on my crime scene, and I'm not happy John got kidnapped on my watch!'

_Greg Lestrade is loyal as much as he is a good friend._ Before I can thank him, Sherlock snaps at my momentary distraction:

'Ether or chloroform, John?'

I blink. He insists, drilling in the same question: 'Ethoxyethane or trichloromethane, John?'

'Chloroform, the latter. Ether takes much longer to produce an effect and I was fighting him off. He'd never have made it with ether. Anyway, how do you know it was something so old school?'

'Are you sure it was chloroform and not another anaesthetic?'

'I know the sickly sweet smell, Sherlock. I'm a doctor, after all. Why the importance?'

Sherlock slowly looks over his shoulder, to Anderson. 'Oh, I don't know...' he says, airily. 'I think it carries personality, don't you think?'

Lestrade's face turns an ugly shade of red in no time. 'Anderson, is this true?' he thunders.

'Do you know', Sherlock proceeds in the same distracted tone of voice, 'when office workers are frustrated they purloin stationery from work?'

'He got it from the morgue's lab', Greg concludes.

'Perfect, Lestrade! I knew you'd get there when I helped you deduce it', he pretends cheerfulness to the DI.

I doubt out loud, lowering my head on my hands: 'But why?'

Sherlock's cheerfulness is short lived. He kneels by my armchair to have a better angle to look me in the face.

'To get to me. Isn't that generally the reason?'

I shake my head, exhausted and in denial.

'And the corpse at the crime scene? Was the murder committed only to serve as a rouse for us?'

Sherlock blinks, keeping too quiet. _It would appear so._

Greg thunderously demands: 'Was that you too, Anderson?'

I can feel the nearly tangible pain in Greg's voice. Anderson is one of his men. Greg takes him under his wing. What he's heard here tonight is nowhere near what he expected from the men in his team. There is rebellion in Greg's team; and this time it's not Sherlock – the wild card – to blame. The threat comes from the outside.

As to Anderson, he's a mess right now. Desperately shaking his head, trembling throughout, and pale as death coming over. He looks sincere in his denial, but after the role he had on my kidnap I'm loathe to trust him so soon.

'I've been set up! Sherlock – Mr Holmes – I need your help. You need to prove my innocence! I– I went back to find the man who put me up to this. He's gone! Vanished! He's putting all the blame on me!'

Sherlock Holmes rolls his eyes, a bit too cold. He allows a small concession by asking: 'Were you doing a long shift tonight?'

'Yes. The graveyard shift. Started at midnight and... That's it! Yes, of course, that's it! I've been accompanied all night long, except for when I said I needed to get a body bag and found John and... Well, you know that already. So, I couldn't have done it, I have an alibi!'

I pass the question to Sherlock: 'Time of death?'

'Not one hour earlier, John.'

'I hope you are not trusting that little piece of—'

'I had a look myself, John. It was obvious, or I'd have called you over.' He loses his train of thought at that. _How different the night would have turned out if he had._

Anderson straightens himself and, looking all shaken, he declares: 'I knew nothing of the murderer's plans. I really didn't. He only told me he wanted to talk to John and John wouldn't come to a meeting.'

'Lovely', I comment, allowing the word to drip with sarcasm. 'Sherlock, is there a point to this?'

Greg steps forward. 'Wait, John... I need to know we are going to do this. Are you pressing charges on Anderson? It's a grave offense, but I've got nothing to go on to force me to file kidnapping charges. It's all down to your testimony, John.'

'I...' _don't know._

Sherlock starts pacing the room, slowly. 'I need to grasp fully the kidnappers plan. Should we let him think he's got the upper hand and we're blaming Anderson?' The forensic technician cringes at that. 'He must already know John got out and he's with us. He should know John is under my protection', he adds darkly.

'Same here', Greg Lestrade adds in a heartbeat.

I frown. 'What does he want?' I ask them. 'Was it for a ransom, to pressure Sherlock, or to get me out of the way for something bigger?'

'That is what remains to be deduced', Sherlock declares, ominously.

_**.**_

I make no exception on tea. It's to be drunk at all times, and as a response to all sorts of circumstances.

There's welcoming tea (to a newly arrived guest), comforting tea (after bad news), invigorating tea (to deal with said bad news), pondering tea (while reading the newspaper, for instance), angry tea (keeps you busy so you don't punch a flatmate), middle-of-the-night tea (if I have nightmares), Buckingham Palace tea (but your flatmate is wearing nothing but a bed sheet)... A good cuppa can have the power to set wrongs right whenever possible, and help us accept the inevitable otherwise.

Sherlock may have taken the tea maxim to the extreme. Offering me cuppa after cuppa, sometimes even before I got halfway through the one before.

If I didn't know better I'd think he feels guilty. Not for my kidnap and subsequent abandonment to fate, no. We've talked about that, we're good. I'd expect Sherlock to be overly preoccupied with the effect on me of having Anderson around in 221B.

In fact, it's been Anderson brewing the tea, each time by Sherlock's cue. Which, in fairness, saved me a mouthful of bitter, burnt tea. It's amazing how a genius like Sherlock can't get a simple cuppa just right.

Lazily I follow Anderson dextrous movements in the kitchen. I'm left by myself, grumpy, to mull over jumpers and tartans.

Or, that is to say, how Anderson's personal style has become so much like my own, as opposed to Sherlock Holmes, his hero. I could make a big fuss about him secretly wanting to take my place for a long time, but I have the suspicion that adopting Sherlock's personal style was just too intimidating, so he went for the closest thing around.

Kidnappings aside, I had earned a new respect for Anderson after Sherlock's return to London. It was then, and only then, that I became aware of his home-based campaign to prove Sherlock was alive, Sherlock was innocent, Sherlock was a hero.

Greg knew of it, I assume. But he did the right call in keeping it from me. _It'd have shattered me if I had known Anderson was one of Sherlock's implausible warriors of truth._

As I was swallowed in my own grief and closing myself off to the hurtful world that tarnished Sherlock's image (the suicide as an admission of guilt), Anderson was stirring up an underground movement of support for Sherlock.

Had I known, I would have been right there, as Anderson's shadow. I had little or nothing left to protect of my own life. Danger, destruction, despair; all would have been better than the numbing loneliness I subjected myself to.

In my pain I was blind to Anderson's importance. He sparked the legal re-appreciation of the heinous accusations on Sherlock, even at his own cost. There's a truth to his public voicing of errors committed during his own Reichenbach's time investigation that is raw and decent. He ended up taking most of the blame, losing his job. Sergeant Donovan got it easier, in comparison.

Every time a piece of news reported Anderson's success and proclaimed Sherlock's innocence, my heart rejoiced and shattered some more, until I couldn't discern if my private outpours were of grief, relief or anger.

Greg always came around at those times, like a grandfather clock striking the beat.

It's only fitting that he's here now to watch Anderson's ultimate success. Having cleared Sherlock's name and opened the path for his triumphant return, in a way he finally gets his loyalty rewarded.

I don't think Sherlock can fully grasp how important this is to Anderson. _But I can._ And I won't stand in the way of his success, as a token of appreciation for all he's done for Sherlock, that I couldn't have done at the dark times that followed Reichenbach.

_With this kidnap, we're even in my eyes._

I won't press charges against Phillip Anderson.

_**.**_

'John... tea?'

I jump at Sherlock's polite, borderline stalking, offering of my ninth cup of tea. Seven cups are left unfinished on top of the side table.

Smiling gently at my friend I answer in the only way he'll find comfort with: 'Sure, why not?'

True to form, he smiles appeased, and signals to Anderson.

_The tea kettle might not make it to see another day._

'Sherlock, how's the case going?'

My consulting detective friend and Lestrade have been putting their heads together to solve the case, my case, in a rare time of unity. There are extensive lists of motives, suspects and there was even a brief re-enactment with Lestrade lying on the floor as the victim, Sherlock playing himself, and Anderson and I playing each other's roles. This last part was of the utmost importance according to Sherlock. I pointed out that the height differences might lead him to the wrong conclusions, but he was adamant. I mockingly wrestled Anderson to the ground instead of falling myself. Gave me a good opportunity to wring his neck, that I waved off, being a better man.

I also recounted several times my escape from the boat and comeback to solid grounds. Although I'd imagine my story to be filled with small clues – the boat must have an owner, the accomplices' identities are surely known by now – Sherlock is passively ignoring all of that, bypassing to go straight to the top. He wants the person responsible for all of this, the one who masterminded a mayhem, tailor-made to create a fracture in our partnership. Sherlock wants to confront this man, and as the minutes tick by, the more dangerous my incensed friend is becoming.

_I could call him to reason, but that would be hypocrite of me._

Finally the moment of crystallisation is reached, like in Sherlock's exothermic mixtures experiments. The moment when the reaction is finally triggered and spreads instantly. It comes about as a harmless text alert. Sherlock's expression transforms into barely concealed triumph.

'Got him!' he declares, smile sinking on every expression line in his face. 'Our criminal is fond of the good old days, apparently. He was first arrested in 2009, on damning evidence provided by me.'

An awkward silence follows Sherlock's incomplete declaration.

'Sherlock...?'

'Only Lestrade forced my hand and Anderson took the credits, I was new in the consulting investigation business.'

'Hence why he wanted revenge on all of us', I realise. 'There's a link that ties us all together. Anderson as the forensic specialist, you doing the extraordinary, and me as the blogger, giving you, Sherlock, the credit you deserve.' I shake my head, tiredly. 'It's never been my expectation, Sherlock, that my praise of you could put you in harm's way. My blog was meant to give word of your incredible powers to the world, not to bring danger closer to home.'

He nods at me. _He knows._ I finish:

'Now we go and settle our scores with that creep. He's got it coming...'

Sherlock smirks appreciatively, with a hint of warmth because he has me back at his side.

_**.**_

Who'd imagine we'd be following Anderson's lead? Worst of all, who'd think it'd bring us back to St Bart's?

A deep chill courses through my weakened body, still recovering from the side effects of the forced anaesthetic agent, as I remember St Bart's rooftop. Been there a few times, before Reichenbach, to get away from the formaldehyde solution smells that build up in the morgue. Molly and I shared snacks there, while Sherlock ransacked the files in search of leads. Never again since the fatal day. It'd be too painful.

Luckily for us, Anderson's clandestine meetings took place in the underground levels. In some far out corner where the janitors pile up old stuff they don't know what to do with. Not biohazard stuff, just clutter junk, from old desk chairs to filing cabinets from before the digital era.

'Are you up for this?' Sherlock whispers to me as we trail the long corridors.

I nod, solemnly. Not even Sherlock could keep me away from wrapping up this case.

Sherlock drops a gentle hand on my forearm, with an excuse ready to fire: 'There's not enough lighting on these corridors, John. This is the most efficient solution so we don't get separated... I was under the impression that you frowned upon our separation earlier?'

_Only when it gets me kidnapped, Sherlock._

As we follow Anderson to one of the small rooms on the side, suddenly we are struck by the incandescent lights from the ceiling, turned on at full power, glaring brightly above us. I flinch, both as I feel the light stabbing my eyes and a sharp headache coming on. Sherlock's hand tightens over my biceps. Keeping strong, for the both of us.

'Finally', he declares haughtily to the man in plain view. 'That was quiet a reception if I can say so myself. You'd have a promising future in show business – in light effects production. But then again, that's just who you are, the shy guy that plots in the shadows, are you not?'

Typical Sherlock: antagonising the enemy with prosaic speeches. Also sensing, hunting, catching the prey.

The man before us smiles, a cold detached smile, as if he never smiled honestly in his life. A true, calculating psychopath except for one detail: he acted passionately. Not for fun, as Jim Moriarty did. This is articulated, planned revenge. For that first case, when fate had brought together an unlikely duo that repelled each other, Sherlock and Anderson, and I was yet in foreign lands.

'We both have guns drawn out', Sherlock continues in a bored tone of voice. 'A deadlock, it's called. How tedious. John wants to shoot you and you want to shoot me, and none gets their way. Shall we call it a draw and get on with our merry lives?'

'Don't be absurd, Holmes!' he snarls. 'I'm a man with a mission', he warns before he starts pulling the trigger.

Immediately I squeeze mine first. He spins on himself, clutching to his left arm, using the hand that still holds the gun to stop the blood flow from the wound I caused. _How did I miss all that much?_

I don't have time to ponder as my knees are faltering, like they can't stand my weight anymore.

'John!' Sherlock yells my name, innocently getting distracted from the enemy gun still in the man's hand. It takes next to no time for him to point it at my best friend and pull the trigger at last...

Anderson and I reacted at the same time, of one single mind. I pulled Sherlock towards me by the shirt's fabric – one or two buttons popping out because he insists on wearing slim fitted shirts – and Anderson forced him down by putting himself in harm's way like a martyr, a hero, and getting the bullet meant for Sherlock on him.

_No._ Anderson is a selfless hero, I'll never take that away from him from now on, I won't let him go down like this. I pull all my strengths together – even as the world spins past me – and aim my gun at the murderer's direction before he can shoot again.

I'm surprised as Sherlock's lean fingers wrap themselves around my hand, helping me to steady it. I shoot with the full intention of setting wrongs right.

He falls, limp, on the floor. Threat contained.

I extricate my fingers from Sherlock's grasp and stumble to my feet, falling back on the floor on my knees, and crawl my way towards Anderson.

The man is brave and selfless, he'd be a good sidekick to Sherlock, full of merit. One thing, though, I can provide in this scene; only I can.

I will doctor Anderson, make sure he lives after his gift of life to Sherlock.

Rolling carefully Anderson on himself so to expose the wound, I sigh in relief as I merely find a deep gash on his right arm. _He was so lucky._

This can be fixed. He'll regain full mobility of his arm, given time. He'll have a scar and a good story to go along.

Sherlock hands me his expensive woollen blend scarf. I take it reverentially in my hands and apply pressure on Anderson's wound with it. It's a _thank you_ note from Sherlock, as best as they come.

That's when Anderson starts whining miserably. 'I can't have been shot! I'll lose my arm, I'll be retired from the Yard. I can't be retired with a bad arm, how will I play computer games? I have an empire to defend and two dragons to command!'

I open my mouth to tranquilise him, but Sherlock scrunches his face and mockingly advises me: 'Just drop it, John. You never know when these things can turn necrotic. You better not make him any promises.'

Anderson pales drastically and falls into a numbed, sanctified, silence.

I glance at the detective. He's already dialling Lestrade for the Scotland Yard's customary clean-up.

Letting go of a long sigh, I realise this is us, going back to business as usual.

_**.**_


	194. Chapter 194

_A/N: There's a storage room at work that is stuffy and crammed. I tend to worry that I'll get locked in there by accident some day._

_This is just silly nonsense that came out of too much time spent in there, organising stuff. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'John? John! Wake up, we're being rescued!'

I open my eyes, feeling groggy and confused. _Sherlock?_

'John, we've got a way of getting out of this wine cellar after 6 hours of forced captivity! Will you just move off of me?'

I awkwardly recede back as I realise I've been sleeping with my head on Sherlock's lap. What on earth went on? Did we drink all that much? How in the world did we end up locked in on a small enclosed space? Where are we?

My friend rolls his eyes. 'Undercover case, remember?' _Not really._ Slowly, it starts coming back to me.

'So we stayed here the whole night?'

'Yes.'

'And you couldn't have picked the lock?'

'No.'

'How come I'm so...' _confused?_

'You got your head bashed while we were being chased. That's why your memories are sluggish.'

_Yes, you can say that again._ I blink hard. 'Sherlock...?'

'Yes?' he asks me with some impatience.

'Are we about to be seen leaving a closet together, with creased clothes, sweaty pallor and unsteady on our feet?'

'It would seem so', he answers with no real understanding.

I groan. _I don't think these rumours will ever go away._

'Just drop it, John', he commands as soon as he picks up on it. _He's getting faster at picking up on these things._

'Sherlock...?'

'Yes, John?'

'What went on in here? It must be because I hit my head... I can't remember at all.'

_**.**_

'What do you remember, John?' he asks me, a hint of concern hiding behind his words.

It's been a while since we got out of that stuffy, crammed, closet-sized cellar, and I'm still trying to piece it together.

Frowning hard, I assess: 'I remember defending we're not a couple; you just shrugged and said you didn't care.'

'People can be so tedious, John!' he comments, aloof, with an extra eye roll.

_True._

'I remember bustling all night as a waiter.' Looking over to Sherlock he nods agreement. 'I didn't get nearly enough tips.'

He raises a brow, amused by my words.

'On the other hand, Sherlock', I continue, 'you got lots of tips.'

He casually looks away. 'Science can explain that. I had a better tailored suit and in a materialistic society that favours the aesthetically pleasing I was the best suited, pun intended, to get tips. I can give you the name of a good tailor, John.'

'No way!'

He sighs.

'And I have better handwriting, thus resulting in fewer order mistakes from the kitchen chef.'

I roll my eyes; _I'm a doctor, remember? _Doctors' handwriting is notoriously difficult.

'Lastly, I seem to have previous experience. _Iz zhat right, monsieur?'_

I could punch his French smugness right now.

For someone with a French grandmother, I think it was, his French accent is appalling. I'm quite sure he's doing it on purpose.

'_May-bee I can give monsieur zome ov my tipss, er..._'

Sighing I let my head sag somewhat.

'I don't remember much about the fight, Sherlock, or being locked in the cellar closet with you...'

He nods, it was to be expected. 'What do you remember, John? Tell me everything you remember.'

'I remember that when I was feeling cold, you wrapped your coat around me and told me to get some sleep.'

'Minor concussion suspected, but you were turning pale and cold and whinny, while I tried to get us out, so I tried to make you comfortable enough to allow me to inspect the cellar better.'

'Were you not cold?' I realise.

'You needed the coat more than me, John', he answers me in full conviction.

_Not quite the answer to my question, is it?_

'I'm a bit confused as to what happened then.'

'I asked you basic assessment questions.'

'Like name, date, name of the prime minister?'

He pondered it logically: 'Started out that way. But you are the one who knows who the prime minister is, I hardly pay attention.'

_Yeah._ 'I remember being confused about the date; you said you hadn't a clue either, it's one of those things you delete every day.'

'It sounds like something I'd say', he smiles roughly.

Blinking, I catch on to some more memories.

'I didn't stay quiet, though. I remember fighting the door to get out; you just said it was comfy in there and started looking at the wine bottle labels... You were trying to minimise my worries, weren't you?' His kindness is always a source of shyness, and he looks away.

'They had a very good Cabernet on the shelves. Rare, too.'

_Oh, right._

'I remember I was still cold, so you handed me some wine and said it would falsely persuade me I was getting warmer if I drank it.'

'It worked, I believe.'

'It'd also falsely persuade me to talk, giggle inappropriately and sing army songs, you added, but you'd bear through that. I denied the drink, given my concussion, it was hardly advisable. You went ahead and had some.'

'It was a shame to let it go to waste.'

'You only know one army song - if that, Sherlock.'

He looks away again. _Is he blushing?_

'I remember you found another bottle - three across, seven down - that you pulled out and it seemed empty. We found the heirloom's treasure map inside it.'

'Yes, that was most convenient', he smirks, winningly. 'Although we were having a good time.'

I frown on him. 'No, _you_ were having a good time, having drunk half the bottle of reserve wine, I had a massive headache.'

Sherlock shrugs. 'You could have shared the wine.'

'I couldn't, I had a concussion', I remind him, drily.

'Then, with the map in hand we estimated a second, secret exit from our captivity', he helped me on my recollection journey.

The tension leaves my shoulders at once. 'Your deductions were extraordinary, even if you were drunk.' _Sherlock is never short of amazing._

'Wasn't drunk! _Too much..._'

'We found the secret passages tunnel to a nearby, unlocked, room, and I had to carry you out, over my shoulder, while you sang "When Johnny Comes Marching Home".'

'Don't think so, I don't remember that.'

'Lestrade came over. He thought we were both drunk.'

'Both our equilibriums were compromised.'

'Yeah, we both looked wasted.'

'But you sing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" better than me.'

Smirking, I tell him: 'I know the extended version. It's a bit sassy.'

'You made Lestrade's men blush.'

'And Lestrade took notes too.'

'That was our testimony at the scene.'

'Was it?' I'm surprised.

'You refused to go to the doctors.'

I shrug. 'Can't recall, but I _always_ do that.'

'And I refused to sober up.' And he looks proud of it.

'You were parroting my version of "When Johnny Comes Marching Home", Sherlock, as soon as you heard it. You've got quite a musical memory.'

Sherlock ignores the compliment for once. 'So Lestrade gave up on both of us and brought us back to Baker Street', he tells me.

'And the client? The case?' I worry.

'They'll be glad we found their counterfeit Victorian painting, John.'

'Say that again?'

'Of course they were under the impression it was legit when they hired us.'

_Oh._ 'So, all of this for nothing?'

He shrugs. 'Learned how to sing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home"... Maybe tonight we can try karaoke?'

I shrug; _why not?_ I have made up my mind to stay at home. We both need some time to recover from last night...

_**.**_


	195. Chapter 195

_A/N: __I'll berate myself for ever more for this one. It's the 80s unfaltering cliché; the amnesia. (Don't look so surprised, I quite clearly stated I'm not a proper writer. Ta.) -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 1st**_

I woke up to a kaleidoscopic myriad of pain and anxiety. Perhaps I already had gathered enough insight, during my unconscious state, to understand at a core, basic level that something was desperately wrong with me. I should expect so. I've been firmly assured I'm a doctor. Perhaps doctors have a deeper insight, even when they are out cold.

I can't remember it, though. Being a doctor. Did I wear a lab coat? Was I a general practitioner or a surgeon? Was I proud of my work?

There's a lot I cannot remember. The doctors, the ones who remember being doctors, said I had amnesia. Doesn't sound as much a diagnosis as an excuse for my lack of recollection.

People who claim I was a doctor - or _I_ _am a doctor_, according to one tall bloke who is particularly insistent on the correct grammar - they claim they were - _are_ \- my friends.

I wouldn't know much about it. They could be lying that I wouldn't be able to pinpoint it.

I could be told the Earth is flat and the Sun moves backwards, and I'd have to take it for granted. Just like I take what they tell me about their friend - _about me_.

I'm a stranger to myself right now.

_**.**_

Sherlock Holmes; that's the name of the tall posh bloke that keeps at my side. He's quiet for the most part, but every once in a while he explodes in frenetic energy. Large gestures, derisive tone of voice, sharp tongue. He's an odd mix of mesmerising, alluring and scary when he's like that. Don't really know what to make of him. All flash and bang on the outside and just an underlying hint of vulnerability that softens those rough edges. Then, as he turns back to me, his demeanor softens, as if he's trying not to frighten me; but he's the one who looks more inwardly scared.

Whoever this Sherlock is - funny name: Sherlock - I find myself trusting him instinctively. Don't know how to explain it. Just feels right.

Perhaps I hit my head too hard. Or it's a ghostly carry-on from our past.

Perhaps I'm desperate for a fixed point in a daunting, unknown world and Sherlock... Well, if I had to trust someone I guess it could be him.

He said I was once his flatmate, sharing some place in central London. Greg Lestrade - he's another recurrent face popping in at this hospital room where time as reset itself - has vouched for Sherlock. Lestrade is a DI at New Scotland Yard. I guess as an officer of the law he's as trustworthy as it gets. They both went funny, though, when I asked them why had I left that flat. Too much information at once, Greg hinted, evading answers. Most of my old stuff was still there, he added, and I'd feel at home.

I didn't enjoy them keeping me in the dark. Not now, when I'm unfamiliar with my own life.

It made me feel like the ones who can tell me who I am are decided on keeping me in the dark. That led to an argument with Sherlock. I asked him for immediate full disclosure. He didn't deny it. But he hesitated. I told him not to bother after all.

Because that was when doubt crept inside me. Who was I? _Am I._ Do I have something to hide? Are they protecting me from the truth?

Couldn't bring myself to ask Sherlock that. So I gave in to my tremendous headache and fell quiet.

I'm a mystery to solve. Too bad I'm not a detective. _Was_ a detective.

_**.**_

'Your room is upstairs, John.'

It takes me a couple of seconds too long to realise I'm being addressed. I'm this _John_ person. And my room is upstairs. Okay, then. Why don't I go have a lie down?

'Hm... Thanks, Sherlock.'

I move towards the stairs, Sherlock immediately following me. I stop short and he almost collides against me. In the back of my mind I wonder if it's always been like this, him having my back with such close proximity.

'I'm okay to go up on my own.'

He reluctantly nods and falls back.

Dusty staircase, another stain glass window to disguise the back lot, a different hectic wallpaper. Finally I see a room, with the door left ajar. This has got to be it. Shouldn't I recognise this place? Why does it feel so foreign, so sterile?

I push the door open wider and glance around the room. Greenish walls, perfectly made bed, a row of books of no one particular genre and some notebooks. I'm drawn to the notebooks. Scrawled handwriting fills the pages. I guess they weren't kidding when they said I was a doctor. There are short writing abbreviations in most pages. I close the notebook for now, with the promise of returning to it later.

Wardrobe. Must get some clean clothes for a shower. Get this hospital grade disinfectant stench out. Although it's not nearly as unpleasant as I'd expect.

The wooden doors open to a neat row of checkered or stripped shirts. Some classic trousers. The odd pair of jeans. Shoes and boots, all of them brown. What in the world possessed me to only go for brown footwear? And quite a few jumpers too. I could take one out right now. I need the comfort. I'm feeling cold. Is London always this cold? Have I forgotten that, alongside with who I am?

Gathering my clothes I look around for shower gel. I see no products around, maybe I left them in the bathroom? Did I share shampoo with the posh bloke? Doubtful, he probably pays a lot for his products. I know I don't. I wouldn't.

Just in any case I go through a couple of drawers.

More jumpers on the chest of drawers. Funny that.

The desk has a couple of drawers. I open the first, expecting nothing more than stationery when I get shocked at the sight of a gun.

I take it up, as if it was calling me with a magnetic attraction. It fits nicely in my hand, it's well balanced, but - no, it doesn't remind me of anything in particular.

_Why do I have a gun?_

_Why do I live in a bare, modest room?_

_Who am I?_

As time goes by I know less and less about this John-person I'm supposed to be.

Why do I share a flat with a detective?

Where have I met him?

I make my way downstairs as the crazy man himself is standing quietly by the window, plucking at the strings of a violin. I veer towards the bathroom quickly and lock myself in. Don't want him to go back to closely following me right now.

It's a relief to get out of these dusty torn clothes. As I stand alone under the scrutinising white halogen light from the ceiling I finally allow myself to tremble through a deep shiver. I lower my head in front of the small mirror, the weight of an unknown world on my shoulders. How can I pull through if this carries on? How am I expected to fake being myself to all these people who seem to know me? Surely they'll tell the differences, miss their old friend, and slowly we'll grow apart. Then I'll be alone, and I can't blame them. I don't know who I am and why would they be my friends.

It's hard to conceive the notion that I'm alone when I can't even explain who I am as an individual. If it wasn't for Sherlock's steady classical piece playing I could let myself break down. I feel lost and I yearn for clues as to who I'm supposed to be. This beautifully played music is generous and heartening, reminding me that, however inadequate I'm being as John Watson, there is someone out there who hasn't let go of me yet.

This Sherlock-Holmes-person has not left. He must really care about this John-person I was.

I feel like I'm letting him down every time I can't quite read his innuendo, respond quickly to his smile, anticipate his needs as he's been doing to mine.

I straighten my shoulders and focus on more simple, attainable steps. Undress, shower, redress. That is achievable. That I can do, whatever the person I am.

As I unbutton my shirt I'm yet again taken by surprise, this time from my own body. I stare in disbelief at the reflection on the mirror, finally gulping and making a decision.

_**.**_

Sherlock is a tall solid presence by the right hand side window, his silhouette clearly distinct against the soft evening light.

'Sherlock?' I call him out, for the first time since I'm... _like this_. Admitting I need his help.

He turns abruptly towards me, but doesn't look upset with my interruption one bit.

A warm smile flickers just out of reach from his expression, that is demure, almost mournful. 'John?' he calls back softly, as he's been doing every single time.

'Sherlock... Quick question?' He nods in approval, bringing down his violin and bow to give me his full attention. 'I figured it out, I think... You are a consulting detective, you said... I'm a reformed criminal you've apprehended and turned to the good side, right?'

He blinks, with some humour shining brightly in his eyes.

'Is that your conclusion, John?'

'Yes', I say, solemnly. Then I realise: 'How do you know I didn't just remembered it?'

His smirk takes over his expression. 'Because only you can see all the significant signs, and mash them up into the most erroneous conclusions, John.'

'...What?' I'm at a loss here.

'You couldn't have remembered it, because it never happened.'

Wait. Can that possibly be true? 'Have you known me all my life?' I point out.

'No', he admits.

'Well then...' He disguises a sudden giggle. _I don't quite see the humour in this. _'Sherlock, there's _things_ I can't explain.'

'Allow me to help then.'

_I trust him_, I realise. Perhaps because I've got no better option. Mostly because my trust in him comes naturally. I need to share this burden I carry.

Slowly, shamelessly, I expose my left shoulder, pushing the shirt open at the collar. He doesn't flinch, disgusted, nor does he look surprised at the sight of my ugly scar. I can only conclude he's seen it before. At the hospital? No. At least not this time. The scar is old and some tissue regeneration has faded its rage filled contours.

'John, you are not a criminal', he assures me in clear words.

'Then how did I get this? An ordinary citizen doesn't just get one of these.'

'Yes they do. Could be a road accident, for instance.'

I shake my head. 'This is amateur work. Not properly tended to by his real surgeons from the beginning, Sherlock. It's messy and crude. Being a runaway criminal would explain it.'

'John, please come with me.'

'Why prolong this? Just tell me the truth, Sherlock.' I'm fighting to remain strong, to not allow my strengths to falter.

'I intend to.'

I follow him. Mostly because I want him to prove to me my fears are unfounded. I want to believe him.

I don't know what to believe. I don't know who I am. I've taken my self knowledge for granted for so long. Now I'm forced to analyse myself from the outside in.

Sherlock leads me to the cluttered kitchen and stands on tiptoes to reach the top section in the cupboard. He pulls out a biscuit tin and puts it down on the table. I glance at his serious face with confusion. He smirks sideways as he opens the tin, with cockiness.

From the inside of the slightly rusty tin Sherlock rescues a velvet bag with something heavy in it. Handing it to me, he waits as I open the bag and slide the object inside to the palm of my hand.

A shiny metal disk with a colourful striped silk tail falls on my hand, upside-down. I twist it in my palm with a feeling of cold detachment filling my soul like a cold shill. I stand immobile, facing the small medal. Bravery in action.

I must have been a soldier.

_Be a soldier._

Nothing comes to mind. As I stand immobile, desperately willing the elusive memories to return to me I find myself desperately grasping the medal in my hand, crushing it in sheer desperation.

'John.'

_Not now, I need to remember._

'John?'

_Please, come back. Tell me who I am._

'John...'

Nothing but the vacuum emptiness. I'm an empty shell, unfilled. I'm lost and undefined.

As my breathing hastens in anxiety I'm hit by clarity. I'm not a quitter. I'll pull through. Being undefined only means I can get to reinvent my life. Take full control. Maybe it's a blessing in disguise. If I find my life needs change, this is my opportunity.

I'll need Sherlock to tell me who I've been. So I can decide if I want to stay this way.

With a deep breath, I gather: 'Why were my medals in a biscuit tin, Sherlock?'

'Experiment', he responds, monosyllabic.

'And I was okay with it?'

'Yes', he smirks, 'you were always very accommodating, John. One of your best traits.'

Oh. Imagine that...

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	196. Chapter 196

_A/N: __Might be a bit long. Last part. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 2nd**_

When I woke up for the first time I can recollect (from my damaged memory) two visitors were present in the hospital room. Both apparently asleep from exhaustion, both with their clothes torn and dirty. Like they hadn't changed after whatever predicament they went through, as if being there at the hospital, with me, was paramount. They didn't want to leave John Watson and their care and affection was so blatant in a tiny hospital room.

_Sometimes I feel jealous of this John-person I was._ Unknown, unattainable; I'm but a pale copy of him.

As my predicament dawned on us, I felt ungrateful, given that I couldn't remember who they were. Or me. I can name the current prime minister, the names of celebrities I can't stand and talk games stats on sports players. People I've learnt about from newspapers and the telly are much more familiar than the ones close by.

The doctors were called as soon as I failed to recognise Lestrade and Holmes. My visitors seemed shocked as I blankly shook my head in lack of recognition. _Do you know who I __am, John__? No._ Sherlock was frantic in no time. He was challenging the doctors' qualifications as much as he was pleading with them to fix me.

Greg Lestrade pulled him away from the room; kicking and screaming the detective went. They stayed out while I was subjected to a battery of tests. I already knew I had amnesia when they returned, looking subdued.

The posh tall bloke handed me a questionnaire. It ranged from "I can brush my teeth and maintain general hygiene" to "I am comfortable with decaying corpses at crime scenes". Tick the box type of questions, all very professional, created in record time. Although I still didn't know what Sherlock does for a living, he had evaded that question. That made the questionnaire even odder.

Sherlock seemed satisfied with my answers. You see, I'm a grown-up, I'm functional and capable. What has happened out of ordinary is that I forgot my personal memories.

_**.**_

'Sherlock?'

I clear my throat awkwardly. I really don't know how to address my flatmate as I come down the stairs from my room and find him brooding over the microscope at the kitchen table.

When I retired yesterday he was still up, and I heard him playing sad melodies on the violin till I fell asleep. Now I woke up, he's already here. It's like he doesn't need sleep; or I slept for far too long.

A nice repairing sleep I had. None the less I still can't recall who – _essentially_ – I am. None of my life, my circle of friends, my work. It's all out of reach.

'Been waiting for you', Sherlock snaps from his microscope.

'Hm... Sorry?' _Why?_

'Tea is in the first cupboard and the butter is in the fridge next to the jam.'

'Oh... I could go for jam today.'

He smirks softly. 'I'll have a simple toast.'

I blink. 'Do I usually prepare your breakfast?'

'Yes.'

_Strange._ There must be a reason, though, so I get on with it. I don't think Sherlock is trying to take advantage of me. I trust him.

The kettle hasn't boiled yet, and I take the chance to aimlessly pace around the flat. It's like a curiosities museum, so eclectic and interesting.

Sherlock clears his throat, removing the slide from the microscope and pilling it on top of the others. 'And you always clean and maintain my scientific equipment, John.' Looking directly at me, he adds: 'Before you had to ask...'

He's overdoing it now, I can tell.

It doesn't take a genius to understand this. Sherlock, who claims to be my friend, wouldn't stop himself from lying in the small things. Things Sherlock would like them to be so, or that he might not even notice are not so to the rest of us. Indulgence or obliviousness. He's not above little white lies, is he?

Can I really trust him? The first hint of doubt creeps into me.

Sherlock's been watching me carefully and now he gets up, slowly. 'John, you should rest.'

'I'm... I'm alright', I dismiss tiredly.

He purses his lips in silent disagreement.

I take a seat in the red armchair, that Sherlock has hinted is usually mine – _comfy_ – and look down on my left hand. There's a slight tremor to it, and I flex my hand, hoping it can stop. It persists as I frown on it. I'm a doctor and I know this can't be good.

'Psychosomatic, John', Sherlock's voice startles me. 'At least that's what your therapist told you.'

I look over my shoulder at my knowledgeable friend. He shrugs.

'You never took her seriously', he adds.

Right.

Sherlock gets a text message that cracks the crystalized atmosphere at 221B. _It was starting to feel homely._ As he lays eyes on the lit screen his demeanor changes, turning energetic, lively, fulfilled. I stare at him in amazement with such a climax transformation. _He loves his job and his life._

'Let's go, John!' he snaps to me with no doubt I'll follow his lead. But I hesitate. Soreness and tiredness holding me back as much as the unknown and vulnerability brought by this awkward tremor in my hand.

'I think I'll pass, Sherlock.'

He stops short as if a front of icy water had hit him on the spot. Finally he takes up his phone and reconsiders:

'The Yarders need the practise. They can get this one.'

I shake my head. The last thing I want is to hold back that beautiful flow of energy that Sherlock had a moment ago, and he's trying to bury deep down now. It wouldn't be fair on him.

It might take me a couple more days before I feel like going out and exploring.

'No! It's... hm... cold outside', Sherlock argues for my sake.

'Please go, Sherlock', I ask, with no holding back. 'I could use the solitude for a couple of hours. I guess I've got a lot on my mind.'

He rolls his eyes. 'More like too little when you've got amnesia...' he grumps childishly as he grudgingly takes his long coat. He's not one for sugar coating. 'Mrs Hudson is downstairs, only a shout away, John.'

_Who? Oh, the landlady, right._ Why would I call the landlady?

I nod compliantly, to get Sherlock off my back.

With considerable less excitement Sherlock leaves me at last, shuffling his feet out of 221B as if to delay himself as much as possible. _He looks like he doesn't really want to go, but he'll do it because I asked him to._

Letting out a long shuddering breath, I close my eyes and lean back on my armchair.

I'm brought back by a gentle hand on my shoulder. As I snap my eyes open I recognise the landlady. I look down on my shoulder – how personal are we, she's casually touching me? – but she keeps her hand comfortingly on my good shoulder. _I guess she must have been a friend too._

'Did I wake you? How are you, dear?'

'Fine', I snap, short on words. She sighs, knowing better than to take me to the letter.

'Got a parcel for you, John. Thought I'd bring it up, might cheer you up. Reminds me of my old neighbour, back in Florida. He collected model trains, you know? Ordered all these small bits from Germany and–'

'Thanks, Mrs Hudson', I cut her off, grabbing the brown parcel off her hands.

'Shall I leave you to that? You know that if you need me you can always–'

'Yes, thanks', I say, shortly.

She shakes her head in silent distress, but leaves all the same.

Peace and quiet restored to 221B, I focus on the mysterious brown parcel and its contents. Inside the small card box I find only a voice recorder. It's an odd thing to receive. No paperwork, so it wasn't online shopping. No return address, it could have been sent anonymously, if it weren't for this one name in the package. _Chandler._ Who is he? Should I remember him?

Curiously, I press the button on the recorder, for it to play.

Throughout the flat the broken words of an emotionally strained man echo with clarity, after the cold factual words:

_"What happened, John?"_

_"Sher-..."_

_"You need to get it out, John."_

_"...My best friend... Sherlock Holmes... Is dead."_

_**.**_

Thoughts. Confused, blurry, tumbling one over the next, they come pouring, crashing down on my mind, filling it with chaotic confusion and doubt.

I know this is my voice. There's a guttural part of me that recognises this dialogue, too deeply ingrained on me not to feel familiar even at this extreme memory loss.

I know this is a real extract from the past, and not some morbid act.

Still I can't recall the circumstances of the past, but something – little flickers of familiar memories out of reach – chokes me with its weight.

This happened.

This man I've put all my trust in has lied and abused me this way.

Maybe I should have stopped the clog's work on the voice recorder, put it aside and wait for Sherlock's return to question him about this. Partly, I think it's pure shock that has paralysed me and now more fragments of conversation emerge.

I close my eyes tight, like children trying to protect themselves from a horrible dream.

_I wish I could go back to a recent past, where I was blissfully unaware._

_**.**_

Service gun in hand, I swiftly cross one of the most degraded quarters in London's periphery. Chandler's words from the tape recorder's ending still ringing in my ears.

_"I hear you've become a bit forgetful, Mr Watson. If you wish to know __more__ information about the cold, manipulative Sherlock Holmes I'm sure we could have a nice conversation... Come alone, to 122 East Street and we can talk."_

There's nothing more than a man like me wants at this point. Talk. Get to the bottom of this. I'd come to any meeting. My gun as a faithful companion that can't double-cross me.

_I'm alone. It's me against the world._

I pull out my gun with a nervous itch. I need to make sure it works, that Sherlock didn't double-cross me. I aim it far and high and shoot.

The splintered glass from the lamp post showers the street below, proving the gun's efficiency. Luckily it's an abandoned, secluded area. No one will call the coppers on me.

Reaching the door I turn the handle. This is it. As I enter the darkness, inside the stale air building, I know I'm abandoning hope.

_**.**_

Suddenly the silence is pierced by a familiar voice.

'John?'

There's an innocent, curious tone to my name, as I turn around, gun still in hand, and face Sherlock.

'What are you doing here?' _Did you follow me? Did you plan this?_

'I've received a lead from DI Lestrade. It pinpointed this address as linked to the trap that was set in motion for the two of us.' He presses his lips then. 'I needed to investigate, John. For all the memories it clouded from you. But you wouldn't come. I didn't tell you the address and I brought my phone with me, so you couldn't have read it... How did you come by this place, John?'

'A man named Chandler told me about it', I confess easily, holding the gun in my hand, still cocked. 'He told me a lot of things you didn't.'

'I'd imagine', he says softly. 'This has been an attack on our cohesion from the start. The previous ambush, that resulted in your concussion and amnesia, and now this solitary location. It reminds me of Moriarty's work. Without his finesse... Chandler, you said? I wonder if he's an alias of Moran...'

'Cut it out!' I shout, breathless. He's confusing me further, that won't do.

'Why?' He acts defiantly. 'Nothing's changed.'

'How would you possibly think that?' I challenge, tense.

Sherlock refuses to see differently this new John that I am.

'Because you're John, the John I know, even if you don't know it... Just drop it, John', he gestures to my gun in his first acknowledgement of its presence between us.

I shake my head compulsively. _I can't._

I stand, desperate, with the gun trembling in my hands. No matter my old tremor returned – as if my body is rebelling on me – I must be a dangerous sight to the man on the other side of the barrel. He should be frightened. Unscripted, Sherlock's eyes are soft and pondered as they weigh and size me, worried only about me.

_He should be scared for his life; instead I see only selfless worry over me in his face._

For the first time I doubt Chandler's knowledge. This is not the cold manipulative Sherlock Holmes he told me about.

My hand trembles more strongly as if shockwaves were flowing with every pump of blood from my heart. I grab onto the gun with both hands now, desperate for control in a mad world.

'That's it, John. There's a doubt inside you. Nurture it. Let it guide you to the truth.' Sherlock keeps speaking softly.

'You are not my friend!' I yell back in a shaky, desperate voice.

'Maybe not', he admits. 'I have done things, John, things I'm not proud off. To you.'

'He told me all about it', I assure the detective. _He's told me the truth._

'I drugged your coffee once and locked you in a top secret facility dedicated to scientific research.'

I blink. _What?_

Sherlock shrugs inconsequentially. 'I know you are strong and brave, and I used that to my advantage in order to solve Henry Knight's case.'

'How did Henry Knight die?' _No, wait, what does it matter?_

'He didn't die. Because we stopped a killer that haunted him all his life. I wish you could remember that. You were a magnificent soldier even under the influence of a powerful hallucinogenic.'

'You drugged me?' I backtrack.

'Yes. Didn't Chandler tell you that?'

I shake my head, bewildered.

'What else did you do to me?' I shout back. Sherlock shrugs.

'Drove away your girlfriends. Because they weren't right for you. Saved you time. Allowed you to focus more on the cases and my needs.'

I squint.

'Were you that lonely?'

He chuckles, softly, either at my insight or my frankness.

'I'm not a hero, John. I never said I was.'

'He told me you had faked your death and not told me a thing.'

'Yes', he agrees, solemnly. Then he adds quietly: 'That I cannot say I regret.'

'You let me mourn your loss. It's devious. Can you not tell it's wrong?'

He nods. 'It was the only way of keeping you safe. I'm afraid I found no other way, John. That was the only option. It... was not as easy as I'd hoped for.'

My head shakes more desperately, as if I could have forgotten I'm still pointing a gun at Sherlock.

'Why would you do all those things to me, Sherlock, and still call me a friend?' I ask him, anger, blurring my sight.

'Because I knew you'd forgive me in the end and saw no other way', he admits, stepping forward. 'It's who you are, John. Now please put the gun down.'

'I can't. I need to shoot you.'

He tilts his head and smiles kindly. 'You won't shoot. Or have you not noticed we're talking instead?'

'Don't be too cocky.'

'I'm not. I just know you, John.'

I grasp the gun tighter as he takes another step towards me.

'I can shoot. I've killed before. Chandler told me that... Or is it a lie?'

'It's not', Sherlock admits naturally. 'But it was justified, John.' He takes yet another step forward. 'You were doing good.' Step. 'And you'd do it again.'

'Without remorse?' I dare him to try another step by aiming it to his face instead of his heart.

'No. Never that. It haunts you. Every life you take, John.' He looks apologetic as he narrates: 'You had nightmares after Baskerville, they were strong then. Slowly they faded to the back of your mind after a while. Waiting, lurking, wishing to come back. No, John; what you did has a price, because you are a good man.'

'Don't come any closer, I'll shoot!'

He nods in acknowledgement but steps forward anyway.

'I forgive you', he tells me clearly.

'Of what?' I shake my head.

'Shooting me', he says, nonchalant.

'You want me to shoot you?' I despair. _Is he mad?_

'I want you not to have nightmares if you do', he says.

'You care about my nightmares?' My arms feel heavy and tired all of a sudden. I just want an excuse to lower the gun.

Sherlock nods. 'But I never tell you, John. You don't like to talk about them.'

'Why did you fake your own death and not told me it was all an act?' I cut to the chase.

'Because it was the only way of keeping you safe, John.'

'I would have gone with you. Didn't you trust me enough?'

'Never that, John.' His face turns into a barely concealed picture of anger. 'Never think that.'

'Then what?' The gun is shaking hard now.

'Because it was the only way I could assume you'd be safe. I'd rather you be blissfully ignorant than bravely dead.' He steps that last space between us and covers my gun with his hand, lowering it back to his heart. 'I said my piece, and I detest repetition, John. So it's time you make your decision... Do you trust me?'

I loosen my grip on the steel gun and sigh. 'Yes, I trust you, Sherlock.' I gasp, exhausted. 'But don't think for a moment I wouldn't shoot you if I chose to.'

'Naturally', he plays along. 'You are a soldier, after all.'

Handing him my gun as a pledge of trust, he puts it away in his coat pocket and we start walking away together.

'And I'm a darn good shooter, too.'

'Indeed... But how do you know that, John?'

'I tried out the gun.' Glancing at him, I can tell he's interested. 'I shot a lamp post.'

'It had it coming', he won't question my sanity, in full complicity.

'And I shot Chandler', I confess. 'He was expecting us here with a gun, it was self-defence. He's still alive', I add for good measure.

'He had it coming too.' Sherlock hums and takes his phone up, tapping on the screen very fast. 'I thought you trusted the liar.'

I grunt. 'Give me some credit, Sherlock. I'm a soldier. I know when I walk in to a battle... I suspect there'll be a trial, Sherlock. I'm in trouble for this.'

'Wouldn't be so sure, John', he starts, idly.

'Why are you smirking?'

'I know your favourite Chinese, John. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.'

'Really?'

'I can prove it.'

'Lead on.'

_**.**_

Memory is a funny thing and it returned the sense of who I am to me after a well-rested night. The very next morning I seem to grasp all that was once seemingly out of reach. Who I am, the memories shared with friends, my routines and place in the world. It's both comforting and burdening, but I willingly take what I can get in order to better be John Watson, _to be me._

Humming a small tune I come downstairs half-expecting Sherlock to be vigilantly awake in the flat as he's been ever since I left the hospital, as he often does in his insomniac habits. Instead I find him asleep in his armchair. Haphazardly curled up, leaning towards the now cold fireplace.

_I owe him so much._

With a soft smile I unfold the blanket from the back of my armchair and spread it over my friend to warm him. I let him sleep peacefully, he's earned his rest after our ordeal. Sherlock was the most supportive friend one could ever have asked for.

Turning to the kitchen I set my spirits on my grumbling stomach and some breakfast.

It's only when I flick the kettle on to make two cuppas that it dawns on me.

_It's very obliging of me._

Sherlock has told me in my amnesiac spell that I always washed his chemical glassware, that I did all the cooking and cleaning, not to mention the groceries and laundry. That I never let the detective have a go.

_As if he'__d__ try!_

_The git lied to me, cheekily._

I shake my head and brace myself over the counter. _The little—_

Slowly a giggle erupts. _Of course he would__!_

The laughter forces itself out of me, too strong to be held back.

_He's such a –_

_My best friend._

It's fine, and I shake my head, keeping my laughter quiet so I won't wake him up. _I'll get him for this, one of these days._

_**.**_


	197. Chapter 197

_A/N: Three parts, happy (sort of) ending. I really didn't see it coming out of my pen till it spilled out this way. It was an exercise; write an improbable scene, make it work. It usually keeps me busy. This is a bit out there, blame it on stress. I do. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

_**(Today) .**_

In less than two months my sandy-grey hair has been found by the sun and brightened by my morning walks at seaside. My gait has become more youthful, stronger even. The proximity with the stormy sea of the English coast has returned some roughness to my features, once ashen and washed out. Most days there's a healthy stubble lining the sharpness on my jaw. The tanned skin only accentuates the ocean blue-grey depths of the eyes, where, if looked at carefully, one can find the same sandy flecks of these landscapes. Sherlock has admitted to me of each of these bullet points in his scientific observations list. His tone of voice, however, was not the one of a casual scientist, but carried instead proud contentment.

He was the one insisting on our getaway to begin with, for health reasons; _for his blogger's health._

I'd assume he would go mental at the end of the first week – heck, even a couple of days would normally suffice – but he's been as dedicated and constant as the day we left London for an undetermined period of time.

My breathing has become stronger – cleared of the chest-rattling infection, potentiated by London's dampness. My skin has resumed that tan that I brought home from Afghanistan. Only now it carries over on more than just my hands and face as, slowly and as time went by, I have become more comfortable with the calm serenity of the beach landscape and have shed my shirt more often. At least if I'm alone, or around people who don't seem to be prying. I still hate that my scars have to be on display in order to fully appreciate the warmth of the sun and the saltiness of the cool breeze that blows in from the sea.

Sherlock assured me that people who stare at my scars are idiots. _Well, he should know._ I caught him staring at my shoulder scar enough times. Only when it's Sherlock I never feel awkward or embarrassed. There's reverence in his expression, and scientific curiosity alike. He's never seen the scars that deform my war-torn body as unaesthetic, or even undesirable. If anything, he seems to associate them with military bravery. But in that he'd be wrong; it wasn't bravery, I was doing my job.

Such as when, after that, I got sent back and joined Sherlock in the criminal battles of London. It's still my job. Some of my skin carries those marks as well.

I'd say Sherlock knows each one of them by heart. From the scratches and scrapes alongside him in the pursue of particularly vicious criminals, to the life-altering starburst scar on my left shoulder from when I was gunned down by a sniper.

And this is exactly where the two battlefields come together. It wasn't just a bad chest infection that preoccupied Sherlock. That was merely an opportunistic infection on top of a more serious illness that got found out as I went for x-rays. A fuzzier blob in the x-ray and all future hung uncertain all of a sudden. But it was the chest infection, in all probability, that put into Sherlock's stubborn head this idea of a healing trip to the seaside – _and how Victorian is that notion on my modern friend?_

There's a sweet awkwardness in most of Sherlock's best generous offerings. It's like it's something new and foreign to him, and he's not sure on how to proceed, but in his most giving manner he finds some unique way of going about them. It's in the novelty way of approaching a solution to a problem that I find the undeniable proof of true generosity and the underlying care.

Sherlock was worried. He could no longer abide by my act that everything was fine. That was my way of handling it – _denial_, but not an inwardly peaceful one. Nightmares soon steadily intensified in frequency as exhaustion floored me. Overworked, at the clinic during the day and chasing criminals with Sherlock during consecutive sleepless nights.

Usually I could pull it off. It was a first sign that there was something more to it when I stopped being able to recover my strengths with a couple of well rested nights.

One day I came by Baker Street and crashed on the long sofa before Sherlock could finish explaining that night's criminal had brilliantly come up with (and Sherlock's own more brilliant deductions of the criminal's actions and motives). Sherlock huffed as he realised I wasn't answering, not by an effort to be the best audience a talkative detective could have, but because I had engaged in deep sleep. Feeling let down by his blogger, he got out of his armchair and, ready to leave the room, sulking (more likely than respecting my choices), he stopped as he heard me mutter in my sleep.

I don't know the content of my monologue. Sherlock won't recount it to me. Possibly it was about my experiences at the war, or when we were threatened by Moriarty, this illness, who knows... While I muttered in my sleep, Sherlock stayed vigilantly by my side, watching over me in my troubled unconsciousness. My silent guardian sacrificed a good case to stay in, listening to my gibberish talk. Analysing, trying to find one of his unique answers to my problems.

The next morning he had come up with the seaside getaway.

'No way, we've got cases to solve!' I refused.

'Sent my deductions to Lestrade. It's enough to keep the Yard going for the rest of the month.'

I looked over at my friend in sincere admiration. _He really is amazing._

'And you'd be bored out of your wits in no time, Sherlock.'

'I won't', he decided, firmly.

I squinted at him, not holding back a certain distrust.

'Are you for real?'

He rolled his eyes.

'If you care to better phrase your questions, John... I'm _real_, I mean what I said in a _real way_, and I intend to defend it all the way – _the reality_... Really.'

Shaking my head to disperse the confusion brought about by Sherlock's warped metaphysics, I try to wrap my head around the huge offering he's doing. This isn't natural on Sherlock. This comforting lark, I've never seen it directed at anyone but me, in rare and special occasions. And the notion of going on healing holidays – essentially – with Sherlock Holmes, has the hallmarks of a weird dream on a feverish night.

'And I could use the rest', he adds then, calculating, attentive to my reaction.

'I'll pack my bags', I assure at once, overly shocked by his admission. _I'm the one who gets worn out, Sherlock's got an endless reserve of frenetic energy that he uses on his cases, his experiments, his love of life._

It'd take a while before I'd realise he used my worry over my friend's wellbeing to solve our deadlock. Only he put it differently, when he admitted his practical lie:

_"I don't know my limits, John. Often I use you to gage my limits. And if you are exhausted then I certainly require some rest... I'm your rational side sometimes, John, just as you are my emotional interpreter."_

But I'm not, am I? At times like these I realise there is nothing wrong with Sherlock's caring and social skills.

_**.**_

_**(The first week) .**_

Sherlock Holmes is preparing a positive cast of the footprint of a seagull he's picked up expertly from the dry thin sand, on the beach. Most forensic technicians wouldn't be able to do that and his work has been carefully methodical.

His jet-black hair is particularly unruly under the morning lights, filtered in at the bay window where he seats at the desk. Long thin fingers dextrously playing the moulding mixture as if there was nothing in the world he cares about more.

Yesterday those same fingers were holding me together as I had a bad nauseated spell at the bathroom. In those less than rare occasions, Sherlock doesn't talk. All his scientific attention focused on me. There are small exceptions, such as when he parted my hair from my damp forehead as I dry heaved and swallowed down on my empty, cramped stomach. His gesture was simple but full of deep care. The same caring that is in everything he does around this former soldier. "It's alright, John", he kept repeating those soothing words, in their repetition they were nearing on loosing their meaning. I was desperate to believe him.

When the nights are this difficult, we don't bring it up in the morning. _I tried, once. The first time around._

_'Sherlock, my illness...'_

_'Yes, John?'_

_'You know it's serious, you know there's a good chance I'll –'_

_'Never – ever! – think that!' he shouted at me, stepping forward till he had me pinned against the wall. Tapping my forehead with a fingertip he demanded: 'Never let that thought establish roots in there, John. I won't let it happen. Ever!'_

Maybe I was too gobsmacked to answer him properly, maybe his possessive nonsense and my giving away control of this illness was a relief. I just remained silent, looking him in the eye as a myriad of conflicting feelings trembled in his irises. _Sociopath my arse._ Finally Sherlock had turned to leave, all light and casual, asking me if I was going to prepare tea some time soon; and that was the only time we addressed my physical ailment.

Sherlock's rational mind is too scientific to deny physical evidence, however, and he's not so ignoring of my ups and downs. He's always a silent help as I stumble on the path to recovery, or the strong medication raises havoc with my body, a war being fought inside me.

He just refuses to talk about the worst case scenario outcome, if it comes around.

He's sure it won't.

_It was caught on early_, he reminds me often. An x-ray for my chest infection revealed more than I bargained for.

I hope he's right, with all my inner strengths.

A part of me knows my fight is stronger because he's around. I'm fighting for us both. It's a battle I cannot afford to lose.

I step forward in the soft morning light and address my friend in a carefully even, strong voice:

'Seagull footprints again, Sherlock?'

'And a dog's too', he adds proudly.

I smile softly as I ponder the art in his works of science. 'It's turning out to be quite the collection, Sherlock.'

_**.**_

_**TBC**_

_**.**_


	198. Chapter 198

_A/N: The timeline has been rushed, I realise. It's __because I can__, in the story-world. As to the case, there really isn't one. The case is John, right now. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

_**(The second week) .**_

It started raining a few days ago. A relentless, continuous downpour of rain that could drown a mouse. By the sea it seems that tempests and stormy gales are all the stronger, beating down on the window pane with the force of waves on a sinking ship.

My nausea aggravated by the view outside the window.

This is the second day I don't get out of bed, alternating between hot water bottles and throwing away all the bed linen because of the hot surges. My body is a battlefield of war I can only host, and not observe or direct. I'm a bystander with all-in stakes. I'm the one with a relentless angry, dark energy inside; mimicking the dark forces fighting for control of my body. I'm angry, desperate, scared, vulnerable. I'm all and nothing at once.

Sherlock knocks on my door and, without waiting for expressed permission, he barges right in. I sigh in annoyance at my friend's lack of social skills; it just goes over his head.

His whole attention is on me, on his grey-tinged friend. _"If you're a doctor and you can't heal yourself, what's the point?"_ he shouted yesterday when things got out of control. He's out of his depth. All outward control restored today, he's coming with the quiet devoted energy of the good friend he's been all along.

'It's still raining out there, John', he tells me; because we won't talk about the illness anymore, or the cases Sherlock misses, or anything that might end up in another argument. The weather is the safe bet.

What else is new? I sigh. Don't really feel like talking. It's not grumpiness, not really. I'm okay with Sherlock talking, or all the rest of the world talking. Just not me. Silence suits me better.

Who cares? Not even my body cares for my health wishes, why bother? I'm just passing by and I won't bother anyone with whines they don't care about.

Sherlock frowns as he reads the defeated attitude etched into my tired bones. I can tell in a glance that he thinks it won't do.

Careful not to overwhelm me, he comes to take a slow seat at the side of my bed. I stay the same, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them.

'Should I call one of your friends, invite them around?' he ventures, unsure. 'Or your sister?'

_Don't want to say my goodbyes yet._ 'No. Rather be alone.'

'I'm afraid I can't do that.'

I frown. What did I miss? _Alone._ Sherlock's here. He's been here all along, never left.

_I'm a burden on my friend._

'Don't you miss London?' I shouldn't have asked; perhaps I'm itching for the inevitable fight and subsequent solitude.

Sherlock shrugs and gazes through the window.

'Not with all of this rain, I don't. Reminds me of London.'

Before I can stop, a flicker of a smile comes to my lips. 'Yeah...'

'I miss playing board games, though.'

Lowering my aching head to my knees, I refuse: 'Not up to it, Sherlock.'

'Why? Got better plans?'

Slowly I chuckle. He's for real. He really doesn't allow himself to see the state I'm in. _And I like that._ Not to be treated like a patient.

_With Sherlock everything is so easy._ I look up from my hideout. Sherlock is again patiently waiting and I realise how lucky I am.

'Fine, Sherlock. Just one game, then. You choose.'

'Then I'll choose a long one, guaranteed to go on till the rain stops and you feel better', he tells me, suddenly not clueless at all. I watch his gentle insistence with a soft smile. _Lucky indeed._

_**. **_

_**(The third week) .**_

Sometimes Sherlock joins me in small walks across this small extension of sand. The weather is warming up and more visitors are starting to pop in on the beach, fresh from the city, unaware of the meaning of this little refuge for the two men strolling on the sand.

Sherlock blatantly uses then for my benefit. He deduces them and tells me their stories. His deep warm voice filling the space between us, chasing away the fatigue in my weakened body. He also tells me stories about the sea, the pirates and the smugglers, all from his incredible knowledge data base. Other times, if I'm feeling stronger, I tell Sherlock of my own sandy tales, of a war fought abroad, full of camaraderie and danger. He always listens raptly to my stories as if my exteriorising of small chunks of gore and terror could purge my body of the darkness within, where my illness has made a home.

Sometimes it feels like Sherlock shares the ancient medical view of an illness being caused by bad humours in the body. Soul and fled interconnected, causing each other's pain. This holistic approach is easily overthrown by common sense and Sherlock makes sure I take my meds. But, you know, just in my case, some demons purging might not be a bad idea.

I never told Sherlock I was in a category of risk for this illness. I was aware of the increased chances due to genetic factors. I watched others fade till the end. The pain that it caused me was a great motivator to join the medical school, and the anger derived from not being able to change the outcome drove me, later on, to the army as much as the other reasons.

There's inadequacy and defeat when you are the main carer of a person you care about and the end is nigh. I felt it firsthand and – not being strong enough to push Sherlock away now I'm on the other side – I want to protect my friend. Keep him from the guilt and pain that almost ripped me apart earlier in my life. I know Sherlock is strong, stronger than a teenager dealing with the pain of loss, but I don't want to make him go through it. He's the reason I can't give up. Even as my legs grow tired of the sand buried footsteps I keep marching. Sherlock and the bright sunlight keeping me company.

He's grown silent, I notice now. He's sensed my tiredness and obstinate focus on walking. Sherlock's presence is never silent, though. Always there to support me if I stop short, breathless, or to smile if I become worried. He's always there with me, we've become one in this battle.

_**. **_

_**(A month ago) .**_

Warm sand grains slipping through my toes as I walk heavily the beach width, the constant revolution sound of the waves coming to crash against the receding stale water and dying again in the pullback tide. The heavy, humid and salty air that blows colder from travelling atop the vast expanse of water that mirrors the blue skies above in its never-ending journey to the horizon.

Take doctor John H. Watson out of London and what do you get?

I stop and ponder the distance, silver flecks of light scintillating in the space between Here and Beyond.

The sand is still warm, retaining the day's warmth, but the breeze is colder, reminding me that there will be a time to go. I must give all of this up and return to my life in London. That's where I belong. This is just... part of a lost dream, a life I could have had, but it didn't turn out that way.

Something warm and comforting wraps around my shoulders and I start, tensing and turning around. It's Sherlock, that came from the rented cottage with my cardigan; his solitary set of footprints on the sand in a straight line as a testament to my friend's fixed mindset. He came out here to bring me protection and comfort, even if now he pretends to pay close attention to the same sea and horizon that captivates me.

Sherlock glances at me while I'm studying him. With a curt nod to his own thoughts he assures me: 'It's getting late, John.'

Briskly I look back to the sea. I don't like this topic of conversation he's bringing up. I wish I could keep it silent forever. Ease it, delete it, eliminate it.

'You worry too much, Sherlock.'

'Your immune system is depressed, John.'

'Yes, I know my illness very well.'

'With _that_', he won't say _it_, it's name, _ever_, 'and with the strong medication you're on.'

I nod shortly. 'Just a couple of minutes more.' _Please._

He comes to stand by my side and just stares silently at the same infinite.

A hundred and twenty seconds later – I could have timed it, Sherlock must have – my friend tells me:

'You're getting better already, John, I can tell.

It's a beautiful white lie, and I won't taint it with scientific truths. We both wish it that way, it's all that matters.

I wrap myself tighter in the rough, bulky wool cardigan he's brought me. He was right – he always is – and the chill is getting to me.

'Let's go back', he guides me gently, to turn around and start walking the short distance back to the cottage.

One day we'll return to London and resume our beloved lives there. I'm looking forward to it.

Right now, I'm running late for my meds.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_

_**.**_


	199. Chapter 199

_A/N: __Last part__. Still blaming it on stress. -csf_

* * *

_**.**_

_**(Three weeks ago) .**_

I'm amazed at Sherlock, even more so than usual. He maintains a childlike curiosity about nature that keeps him interested and occupied in this small coastal village. I'd expected him to have ready been driven round the bend by his constantly restless mind. I was wrong. When properly motivated, Sherlock can use his obstinate streak to keep his day-to-day lively and varied, even at this difficult scenario. He won't let my illness overwhelm the days. It's a part of me that he deals with in the most supportive ways, but he's careful not to let _it_ define me. He calls _it_ temporary and acts as if that's a scientific principle, a certainty. I appreciate the kindness and naivety of the act, as a deflection on the dark cloud that hangs over my head or the near tangible quality of my dreams of recovery.

Perhaps today is the real test to Sherlock's enduring optimism.

I'm impatiently waiting by my phone, fully charged and resting on the dinning table, to get news from my doctor as to the last analysis I underwent.

The fact that he's my fellow colleague may have sped up the process a little, giving me unfair advantage. I have no courage to refuse the favouritism, and Sherlock wouldn't have let me anyway.

This short wait has been almost as painful as the process itself. Large quantities of medicine and harsh side-effects, punctuated the bright hope that they could work and set me right.

You really don't know what you've got till you're at risk of losing it.

I've been feeling better. I'm more patient with the nausea, the pain, the fear. Whenever they return I focus my attention on Sherlock and his unwavering faith on a good outcome.

I'm silently staring Sherlock's way when the phone bellows loudly, making me jump. I stare at the frantic thing and hesitate to pick it up. _This phone call is about to change everything._

In a burst of clarity I realise I'd rather stay in this tense obliviousness than to hear possibly terrible news.

Sherlock takes a look at my frozen scared stance and comes over to take the call. He takes my phone to his ear, responds in monosyllables and finally breaks his controlled demeanour with a bright smile, that extends to the crinkles of his eyes, molds his lips into a soft shape and sparks the light-green tones in his piercing gaze.

I sigh in relief; even if no words have been exchanged. Sherlock's happiness is so filling of his expression that it's impossible to deny or doubt. He's got his wish. _I'm getting better._ His steady, strong support is being rewarded and I'd thank any higher power above in anyway possible for that genuine smile in Sherlock. The one he deserved so much. The one in mirroring right now.

Taking a seat, I realise I feel exhausted, in a good way. A ton of bricks' worth of tension has been eased from my shoulders. My hands lift to unite behind my head of their own accord, my head slumps to my knees, hot tears spring to my eyes, my emotional reserves are depleted and _everything_ comes rushing forth at once.

'John?'

In his gentleness, Sherlock has disconnected the call and he's worrying about me.

I uncross my hands, glance upwards and watch my friend through blurry eyes. Then – _this is not enough _– I get up and launch my hands around his lean frame, getting hold of him and refusing to let go, as I burst into relieved sobs and grab him as tightly as humanly possible, as if that could convey the depth of my thankfulness.

He holds me back with equal enthusiasm, after a first moment of stunned stillness.

_**.**_

_**(Two weeks ago) .**_

_Recovery takes time_, I used to say to my patients. And no matter all the care and empathy I had for them, I never knew with how much impatience my words were surely met by my polite patients. I'd gladly insult my physician if he dared to tell me to be patient right now.

Given the "go home free card", I want to hurry back into my old life, the one I missed so bad, the one I feared I had lost.

Sherlock endures yet this new set of emotions in me with the same steady presence as before.

Trailing beside me in one of my five miles morning walks – it's still one mile long, but I intend to push it up to five miles in time – Sherlock is unusually quiet, as I turn out to be the talkative one, with too much overflowing energy.

We're returning to the rented cottage when it all falls into place.

'You've got a case into your head', I realise in a flash of instinct. 'Your mind is all twisted around a new case, I can tell! Now you heard my doctor giving good news, your head is back on the game, whether you want it or not. You've found yourself a new case, Sherlock... _and I'm glad for you_', I add, sincerely.

He glances my way, slightly shocked by my insight, but he won't deny it. He goes back to unbuttoning his jacket and hanging it on the peg by the door.

'I did not go out looking for a case, John', he makes sure to tell me.

'I wouldn't have blamed you if you had', I let him know.

'I would have done the blaming for you, John... The case seems to have been near us all along, but we were to blind to see it.'

I nod, slowly, pondering his words. 'My illness was pressing', I agree.

'Just drop it, John! It was only a minor setback!' he corrects me. _Yeah, right! What an understatement..._ 'You're the doctor here, but perhaps some vitamins wouldn't go amiss.'

Chuckling, I realise this will be our abridged version to give to our friends back in London.

'Go on, Sherlock, tell me about the case', I ask my friend. 'Please', I add for politeness sake. It aggravates him somehow, as if I had never to ask; I always a part of his cases as far as he sees it.

'The footprints on the sand, the electrolysis content on the sea water samples I experimented with, and the small tokens you've often brought home from your morning walks.'

'Those were little more than twigs, empty shells and pieces of colourful glass rounded by the sea, Sherlock. What can I have brought back that justifies a case?' I reject the notion. 'And besides, it's all gone, it got binned.'

He smirks and goes to the cushioned chair by the window. I've often seen him take that chair, and started thinking of it as his chair in this cottage.

From under the chair he pulls out a small wooden chest. As he opens it I recognise every little piece of natural junk I brought back to the cottage in this month and a half. Sherlock saved every meaningless piece of clutter, desperately hanging on to the memories of me those objects could conjure at a time he felt he was losing his best friend.

I shiver, as I ponder the insane amount of pain we've been hiding from each other.

'You should throw all of that away, Sherlock.' _I'm here to stay._

He grabs onto a smile. 'In due time. Right now it's material proof that you are as much of a "hoarder for dust attracting stuff" as me, and I intend to show Mrs Hudson!'

The mention of the kind old landlady brings back memories of Baker Street and, for the first time in a long while, I admit to dearly missing it. Going back to Baker Street will be the ultimate proof of recovery, I decide.

I chuckle. 'Fine, Sherlock. Keep all that if you want.'

'I want more', he adds greedily.

'Then I'll get you more.'

'I want more from beyond the lighthouse', he defines, with all his attention carefully stuck on me.

Two and a half miles to the lighthouse, two and a half miles back. He knows my goal. He's being supportive yet again.

'In due time', I promise him.

He nods, very seriously.

'So...' I start, looking at the small chest's contents. 'What about all this junk?'

'Treasures', he corrects.

'Clutter', I adjust.

'Evidence', he admits, 'of a crime committed decades ago in this area. Smuggling. Everyone assumes it was just children's tales. On the village's shop you can buy a pirate's t-shirt on discount. It would seem like the business has grown atop a real, historical fact. I found proof of old days smuggling, John, and we weren't even paying attention. You are my conductor of light, after all. You've got me a brand new type of case, John.'

'A cold case', I point out.

'It's not like I'm calling the Yard', he admits with a smirk.

'There's an upside to all of this', I comment, sadly bemused.

He looks at me, sadness permeating onto his expression, and keeps silent. He'll never admit any good thing coming out of such a hard time for me, out of respect. He needn't worry. I rather believe there is an upside. Not the case, no, it's hardly up to Sherlock's usual standards; he's just so desperate to return to normalcy. No, if there's a beautiful silver lining to all this, it must be the constancy and warmth of his friendship and support.

He'd gladly give up cases if that would keep me healthy by his side.

My bad. It was careless of me, to steer the conversation this way. I need to act like nothing was up, Sherlock is too deeply scarred by the recent past to move on just yet.

'Sherlock, I–'

He won't let me finish. Towering, demanding, ridiculously authoritarian, he tells me:

'You'll remain healthy and we'll never go through something like this again, John. Do you understand me?'

Bewildered and deeply amused, I nod.

_Fine by me, Sherlock._

_**.**_

_**(A week ago) .**_

The weather has turned again. It's become rather chilly and oppressive, as a bone-deep humidity is rising from the sea and seeping in by every crack on a door or a window of the cottage. It reminds me of London. Home.

_Cold feet_, I muse over the irony as I search for a clean pair of socks. I seem to be going nowhere with my search. I wouldn't put it past Sherlock to have absconded all my socks to use in some science experiment.

I'm scared of going back to Baker Street, to my life, only to have my illness returning. I know I'm clear for now, although there will always be a chance of coming back and reasonable monitoring will always take place. I know this shouldn't be a fear right now, because my analysis are that recent, it's just that my memory is too fresh.

Somehow this peaceful seaside has intertwined with the idea of a safe haven I can come to heal, and I'm intimately scared of leaving it.

Cold feet. No socks.

I look around in the empty living room for some clever hideout where all my socks may be in wait of a rescue from Sherlock's sci-fi madness.

I come to a notebook, pinched open by a pencil on some of its middle pages, and wonder I this wasn't one of my notebooks, purloined by a kleptomaniac, common-property expert, detective.

I flick the notebook open and stare at the scribbled page.

"In less than two months John's sandy-grey hair has been found by the sun and brightened by my morning walks at seaside.

"His gait has become more youthful, stronger even.

"The proximity with the stormy sea of the English coast has returned some roughness to his features, once ashen and washed out.

"Most days there's a healthy stubble lining the sharpness of his jaw.

"The tanned skin only accentuates the ocean blue-grey depths of John's eyes, where, if looked at carefully, one can find the same sandy flecks of these landscapes."

My eyes flutter through those lines with emotion. Sherlock has written down bullet points of his scientific observations of his healthier friend. He didn't mean it for me to read. No matter the reason, it boosts my confidence that he can see me like this, recovered and revived.

It gives me the strengths to go back to my old life.

Sherlock and I will be leaving soon. Going back to Baker Street, going forward.

_**.**_


	200. Chapter 200

_Really extensive A/N: This is one of those stories where it seems like I'm trying to see how many people I can insult in one go. __Alerts__: overuse of clichés, borderline mistreatment of horses, insults to generic Bedouin tribes in the aforementioned clichés, imagination fuelled by a sugar high, and non-linear time-construction of a narrative if I opt to continue this. Just think of the intruder contending with Sherlock at 221B, at the beginning of "The Blind Banker", while John has his own private battle with the supermarket self-checkout machine._

_I'd say it's __too much__, but it's really hard to set a limit in Sherlock fan fiction. I can't be the worst out there, can I? _

_So, let's get serious. I chose this for the 200th post. It's a silly, outrageous number. It makes scrolling down the chapters list tiresome. There's a few to finish and I am planning to go to 221 "chapters" (like in 221B). It's been too silly and too outrageous, to have come this far. It's hard to explain all the help that you've given me guys just by dropping in. It's been immensurable and don't think I ever posted without feeling really scared because it's not as good as you guys deserve._

_ As always, still not British, a writer or anything other than myself. -__csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'_Who are you? Who sent you here?'_

Those questions are barked at me – as I'm kneeling on the hot sand with my hands united behind my head – in a vociferous tone of voice that carries no compassion.

It's amazing how these criminal types always ask me the same things. Different languages, religions and weaponry; yet it always amounts to the same.

My lack of answers sets the action in motion. I'm shoved forcefully to the ground by these Arabic men in long loose-fitting garments down to the knees, cotton trousers and turban head pieces, and I topple over, centrepiece on a round gathering of angry Bedouin men and camels.

This could be an educational off-the-beaten-track educational holiday if these men weren't rogue representatives of their people. Thieves leading fugitive lives, prospering on black market trade.

Short heavy footsteps bring forward a couple of the men, as they prey on the foreigner lying on the sand, defenceless, that they believe came to their territory to pilfer their riches and kill them. Angry battles and fierce survival run in their nomadic blood as sure as I'm a stranger among them.

I take a deep breath to steady myself. _This is not my first fight in the sandy desert landscapes._

'American?' One of them asks me in a rough English.

_What? No! You watch too many movies, pal!_

Not that it will get better if I tell them that I'm a former British soldier, so I keep quiet.

Sherlock got me into this mess, so I expect he will get me out, anytime soon. I just need to keep strong and buy time.

'We'll make you speak, thief!' snarls the Sheik, in their dialect. Don't need to be proficient at it to detect the threat it carries.

_Time is running out._

The oldest man of half-a-dozen self-made army of Bedouins spits on the sand, missing me as a target by an inch. It's a gesture of profound disgust and hatred in most cultures and it doesn't take much prior knowledge of this region for me to tell the situation is escalating fast. Tempers are running high – and I'm being kept alive for now only because they think I have the object that Sherlock stole from them.

_Actually, Sherlock's got it. But I'll never tell them that much._

A younger man steps up with a darker expression and sniggers at me. 'We can make him talk, and then...' Instead of verbalising his threat he swings in the hot desert air his long curved blade sword. The whooshing sound it makes as it cuts the air is quite the proof of how sharp they keep these blades.

These are men of war and thieves; as much as they accuse me. _It takes one to know one._

Sherlock and I stole back their precious stolen relic to avoid an upcoming clan clash and inevitable war. There's an unstable equilibrium of clans in this sterile harsh territory that the world would favour maintaining, rather than risking explosive wars between these proud people. They hold on strong to their traditions, from the horses and camels as means of transport and objects of wealth to the simple nomadic character of their camp as they stray from the main clan. Merchants by day, mercenaries by night or design, they are a rogue tight unit in search of their private personal fortune. And now they have their eyes set on me. Not as a prey – I'm of no real value to them – but as a source of information.

Another of these men is already turning my canvas bag inside out, spilling its few basic needs content on the thin scalding sand.

'It's not in here!' he declares, incensed. His dark ominous gaze promises me that if not found, their former property, they'll skip at once to the revenge part.

'What's this?' Another man leans forward to grab something that fell off my bag. He holds up a set of two small colourless vials with liquids inside and lidded at the top.

_Haven't a clue_, I shrug. _Must be another of Sherlock's useless stuff that he makes me carry around for him... The posh git probably got himself some aftershave and cologne ensemble for a land where fresh water would have been far more valuable._

'That belongs to my mad friend', I answer them in English, knowing their knowledge of my language is limited.

'Leave it!' the older Bedouin man orders the younger one. 'If the filthy thief doesn't answer, kill him!' And directly at me he adds: 'In the desert we do not carry what we can go without. And you... are useless.'

'I am a doctor', I tell them in my best attempt at their language. If there's something useful from a travel guide to an army medic is to gather how to say "I'm a doctor" in as many dialects and languages as possible. Again, I keep the army part out. Strictly speaking what I said is true, and it might just buy me the time I need.

Or not. Their expressions are still murderous and none of them appears to be in poor health...

The leader snarls. 'Kill him!' he overly pronounces the English words to my sentence. The man standing at his right twists his expression in hate and raises his own sword in the air...

Something halts him all of a sudden and he glances beyond me. Then every one of those men is looking in the same direction. I dare to look as well, over my shoulder. From across the dunes a fast horseman is approaching in a powerful striding horse. _Who is he?_ Long dark blue and deep red stripped traditional garment that the speed of the approach spreads taunt over his chest, dark blue turban over his black hair and his features disguised by a blue scarf spread over his nose and mouth. As he gets closer, I can tell the deep vibrant colours contrast sharply with an unusually pale alabaster skin and narrowed aqua blue eyes, lit up with fiery darkness. This man is a vital force to be reckoned with, a dangerous apparition joining the battle to defend me, a dark angel of war. _Sherlock._ Sword drawn in his hand, he immediately tackles the first two thieves launching at him in unison.

Sherlock pulls the reigns hard and his horse gets up on hinder legs and high up over the threatening crowd, making the Bedouin thieves hesitate. Those aqua eyes narrow fractionally further as Sherlock locks his gaze with the weakened soldier he's come to rescue, roughened up by the local crowd. Never losing his confidence in me he throws the cuff of his sword for me to catch, offering it. I grab the weapon easily, as Sherlock is already crossing his arms in front of him and lowering them to his saddle. From it there he draws out two new swords that he holds up crossed in the air above his head in exhibition of war.

_My best friend and saviour is a show-off._

Most of the thieves back up another step at the impressive sight.

As for me, my weapon of choice has always been the gun, but I'm trained as a soldier and I'm minimally proficient with this long curved, traditional blade. I get up from my knees and keep my new sword upright and proud.

Even with the magnificent beast Sherlock is ridding and the frankly exaggerated number of knives he brought to this fight, we are outnumbered in an inhospitable territory, fighting a battle that would take a miracle to win.

Sherlock puts both his swords away again and suddenly spurs his horse, sprinting on a straight line at the thieves. As he passes by the youngest one the mad detective grabs out of his hands the two vials that were found in my bag. Then, as he passes me, he holds out an open hand that I take in full confidence. His strong grip tightens around my wrist as I gab on desperately to the back of the saddle behind him, and pull myself to a forced lift up. As I'm clutching at heaps of twisted fabric in his ethnic disguise, and feeling desperately uncomfortable over the horse's posterior flank in full racing mode, Sherlock hands me the two vials set with confidence in his features. 'You've got a good aim!' he shouts over the horse's heavy breathing and thumped clapping over the sand, and war scream calls behind us.

'What's this?' I ask, confused, but trusting. _I always trust Sherlock._

'Just drop it, John!' he directs me.

I look down at the two vials in my hand before I twist my upper body and swiftly throw the vials in the direction of my abandoned canvas bag, mingling on impact the two seemingly harmless liquids...

The loud reverberating chemical explosion sends flames bursting high, and the hot air mass knocks the gang to the ground. Their horses and camels, frightened beyond calming, wrestle against their simple restraints and, setting themselves free, they scurry off to the distant dunes. The men getting up divide their focus on angrily following us – war – and chasing their animals – security – of which they depend for survival in these desert landscapes.

Sherlock's mustang is reined in by a competent rider _(who knew Sherlock could ride so well?)_ and even though he gently pats the horse's neck in appreciation he also spurs the beast to gain speed and distance, getting us to safe ground as quickly as possible.

_**.**_

_**(Perhaps TBC**__**)**_


	201. Chapter 201

_A/N: More parts to come. This is what happens when I watch some other television series and within the first three minutes I'm thinking "this would be better with Sherlock and John". It turned out the plotline I guessed wasn't the one they did either, so I decided to take all matters into my own hands. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 1 .**_

The innocent sounding question hit me as soon as I crossed the threshold into 221B Baker Street.

'Got any plans for the weekend, John?'

I hang up my jacket on the peg behind the door, slowly. My mad detective friend's smile is akin to the Cheshire cat's grin. This is the moment any sane man would back away, sense the grounds, ask questions...

'Yeah, I'm free! What's on your mind?' I answer instead. Because this is Sherlock Holmes, and life beside Sherlock is never dull.

His smile morphs into a more knowledgeable expression before he camouflages it at once, his whole facial expression going blank.

'We're infiltrating a brainwashing cult, John.'

I blink. _Could be worst._ Then I protest faintly:

'Is there going to be singing by a bonfire? You know I don't sing very well...'

He smirks. 'You sing fine. Worry not, John!'

I sigh in protest, but go to the kitchen to make some tea all the same.

'Hang on, Sherlock!' I stop with the kettle mid-air. 'When did you ever hear me sing?'

I turn around to face the living room but Sherlock is no longer there. He's left before I could ask any important questions. _Typical Sherlock..._

_**.**_

'How do I look, John?'

I glance at my agitated friend, checking out his looks at the living room's mirror above the fireplace. I honestly don't think he'd fret himself this much if he had a date night.

_Well, I wouldn't know._ I've never seen Sherlock date. Except for Janine. And that turned out to be a fraud. Well, part of it, at least, like the proposal. I really don't want to think about Janine's interviews to the tabloids. If anything, what I extracted from them – _I didn't read them, but weirdly enough Mrs Hudson did, and she came over to report them to me_ – is that Sherlock was happy with someone. I was happy for him, honestly happy. He deserves that. He's a great person. But then again, Mrs Hudson has, multiple times, insinuated that she can hear just about anything that goes on at 221B from downstairs and she implied to have heard _nothing_. And that silence was the main reason she had come report the tabloids stories to me. Because secretly (or less than secretly), she's still hopeful for us. _Oh, Mrs Hudson, how many times..._

I swear, if Sherlock and I ever got together as she sometimes dreams, she'd deserve to be the first to know and I'd have it no other way.

_Well, apart from me._ I'd better know about my relationship before she did. It'd be awkward not to. And someone would have to pick me up from the floor too.

'John, you're not listening', Sherlock's protest jolts me back to reality. 'Honestly, John, you are letting your imagination run out of control more and more...'

_It's not my imagination, it's Mrs Hudson's!_

'I'm sorry?' I return politely.

'Don't be', he returns naturally, at once. Then turning back towards the mirror, he asks me: 'Do I look the part?'

I finally pay attention to the genius. He's toned himself down somewhat, with a loose fitting pair of jeans and a navy blue t-shirt that brings out the blue hues of his light coloured eyes. Somehow, the more relaxed attire makes him look younger, more vulnerable. It helps that Sherlock is a good actor. Not so good with disguises, really, they usually turn out goofy. From the bruised face priest to the French waiter, the real evolution of Sherlock's acting skills has been hidden in plain sight. It's the personality shift that he undertakes when he's becoming this new person that usually hits the spot. And this newest Sherlock is young, naïve and gullible, from the looks of him.

A second later and I realise I'm looking dumbstruck, at the back of the reflected view on the mirror above the fireplace. Sherlock smirks, instantly becoming his old self, and voices:

'I think that will do for me.'

'But...' I shake my head to clear my thoughts. 'Don't you think you'll be recognised? You are the great Sherlock Holmes, after all. Someone is bound to recognise you.'

'Someone who reads your blog? All 1,895 of them?' he asks with a deprecating twist of the mouth.

_What?_ That was a partial count, and how does he even remember that?

'Or someone who reads the papers.'

'It's a cult, John, it's closed off from the rest of the world. We'll take that chance. We don't have time for hair dyes and fake moustaches, and all those things from the television series' detectives you care for.'

I blink. Twice. _No time._ Does that mean we're leaving now?

'I haven't changed yet, Sherlock.'

He smirks at me. 'You are painfully average-looking at first sight, John. If they don't recognise me, then I'm sure you're safe.'

I'm still straining my expression as he glances back at me. It's his turn to blink as he scans me.

'You look great, John! Stop being so insecure!'

Refusing to take the bait, I add: '"But"...?'

'You could do with loosening up that shirt collar and relaxing the tension on your shoulders, John. This isn't the army.'

I'm glad he's already ahead of me, jogging down the stairs, so he doesn't get the brunt of my death stare. I follow him down, fighting my shirt collar's button.

_**.**_

Sherlock's ease on hailing cabs got us to the morgue building next to no time. Lestrade was waiting for us at St Bart's side door, looking tense and itchy like a man fighting not to take up a cigarette. _Well, at least not in front of Sherlock. They're in this together._

I'm wondering what could gave made our detective inspector so tense, when I finish paying the ride to the cabbie and step out to the street. The view of the familiar grey, stained pavement almost makes me crawl back inside the cab.

_And Lestrade only knows this scene – the one that my memory is flashing before my eyes unwelcomingly – from my witness reports, and possibly some grainy cctv footage._

I press my eyes shut hard. No matter how many times I come by this way, it always sparks an instinctive reaction in me.

_Next time I'll be coming round the back._

'John!' Sherlock calls me, acting all impatient as he edges forward to meet Lestrade. His eyes, however, tell a different story. He seems upset to have dragged me this way, to not have thought it through.

He's blind-sighted by this case already.

_I just know that all three of us have decided to come round the back next time._

'Coming!' I promise, setting my jaw and taking control.

Up ahead, Lestrade swiftly moves inside without waiting for us.

A few seconds later the very much alive Sherlock Holmes, and his blogger, cross the side-doors to St Bart's, welcomed by Scotland Yard's finest, DI Greg Lestrade.

Greg does a double take on Sherlock as he sees him without the trade mark tailored suits. His eyes wander to me, as if asking me if everything is okay (and misses my short collar undone), then back to Sherlock with the same question imprinted in his face. Sherlock, the consulting detective currently not being larger-than-the-room seems to have lost two feet off his height as he meekly, bashfully almost, faces the authority officer.

'Graham', he nods and smiles, well-behaved.

This is too much for Greg and he snaps, suspicious. 'Don't give me that, Sherlock! You know damn well my name! Now, what the hell is going on?'

Sherlock smirks in his old-fashioned way. 'Shh, it's a hospital!' he dares to lecture Greg.

'We're heading to the morgue. The patients in there don't wake up', he says, drily. 'Sherlock...'

I start to suspect Greg's worry stems from a time I met them, when supposedly Sherlock wasn't at his best and Greg lectured him a few times, trying to keep a brilliant but restless mind on the right track to recovery.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, immune to Greg's apprehension. 'Oh, please, it's for a case! John dresses like this all the time and I don't get to see you bite his head off!'

'It's not the clothes', Greg grumps, but he looks less sure of himself now that the old Sherlock is back in full swing. He glances at me, as if he expected me to be mediating them. Instead, he dials down some more and asks Sherlock: 'What case?'

'Your case.'

'I haven't told you my case yet.'

'Molly did', Sherlock explains at once. 'She thought I'd be curious about the tattoos.'

'When was that?' Greg's anger boils up again. This is police business, it should be secret.

_Sherlock is always an exception._

'Two bodies into it. How many more have there been? Do they all have the same ritualistic markings on the skin?' the detective fires his questions eagerly.

'One more, Sherlock.' Greg sighs and starts answering more patiently, we're still walking the corridors to the morgue. 'This time we have an ID, that's what's new.'

'Same age range as the other victims?'

'Generally speaking, yes.'

'Naked?' Sherlock asks with coldhearted objectivity.

'As he came into this world. No signs of assault either.'

'How did you ID him? Fingerprints?'

'No, they were too deteriorated, like the others.'

'Then how did you do your job, inspector?'

'Easy. We read the military dog tags around his neck.'

Sherlock's surprised look is priceless.

_**.**_

Doctor Molly Hooper slams shut one of the refrigerator unit's door casually. It's easy to see she's got used to being surrounded by dead bodies and body parts all day; and then there is something jovial and sweet in her shy glances at Sherlock, her former crush, and it all seems so foreign in this cold autopsy room.

'I've just finished my examination, Greg', she tells, picking up a clipboard with several pages attached to it. 'He was fit and healthy for his age. Had suffered some trauma but was healing along nicely, so deep tissue embolisms are ruled out. He had very nice scarring tissue around a knee injury, that could be what got him decommissioned and back home.'

The army has little use for a seriously injured soldier. It's just the nature of the job.

Sherlock is already assaulting the evidence bag for the army tags. He brushes his gloved fingers over them in thought, then passes them along to me with a quirk of the brow.

I take them in my own gloved hands. They pass my inspection. 'Seem legit. Young male, serving in the army, gets sent home after a bad knee injury. There's no mystery here, Sherlock.'

Bending over a covered body of a soldier holding his tags is not a first for me.

_Oh, yeah, Sherlock is definitely larger than the room now._ He looks all dramatic as he huffs and takes the tags back. '_These_, John, are a soldier's prized possession. _These_ determine whether one day his family gets to bury him or if he remains anonymous in a foreign land. _These_ are precious. So precious that on the old days soldiers used to trade them if they had been fatally wounded, so that the family they would leave behind could have something of them to remember them by... Do me a favour, John, and compare these with yours.'

I sustain his frenetic gaze with a sterner one of my own. Then I nod sharply and retake the tags in my hand. _If this is what it takes to help Sherlock solve this case._

'The victim was younger than me, and a private in the army. So, lower ranking, I... was a captain.'

'You _are_ a captain', Sherlock corrects me at once.

I bite my lip. I'm retired. Not going back. And by Sherlock's side, in the battles of London, I don't need a rank.

Turning the tags in my fingers I watch the inscriptions carefully. Name, rank, army serial number, blood type. I used to pay attention to only two of those. Their names to call them as I tried to revive them, and their blood type to call for reserves back at the medic tent.

'Go on, John, what else do you see there?'

'A treasured momentum of this man's past.'

Greg swallows thickly, next to us. That distracts Sherlock momentarily from the attention he strains on me.

Molly intervenes. 'Sherlock...'

The detective caves in. He retrieves the tags from my gloved hand, his fingertips lingering over my palm as if he was shyly trying to convey some meaning to the gesture, and starts: 'Even without reading I know these aren't your army dog tags, John.'

I smirk dangerously. 'Absolutely. You wouldn't be holding them.'

He ignores my warning. 'There are some scratches and dents, several, all over the surface.'

'I've got marks on my–' I dare to interrupt, and so does he:

'You used yours under your shirt like a good soldier. You don't wear these outside, like they do on the movies. You don't bring them out because the sunlight can reflect on them and shine in the distance, attracting attention to your location, bringing you danger.'

I agree with a nod. 'It's survival 101. Using the tags to reflect light to call for help if you're lost on the desert. Usually in Morse code. It can also attract unwanted attention if you're under attack.'

'This man', Sherlock points accusingly to the covered corpse, 'was in the habit of showing off his tags, over his clothes. Probably after he came back, he would wear them over his civilian clothes. He'd also get into quite a number of fights.'

I look away. I've seen a good share of soldiers showing off after they returned home. Perhaps it's a right they've earned after risking their lives for the nation. I chose to be more sober.

Greg interjects: 'The victim was found with no clothes on. Maybe that was when the tags got damaged. We don't know if those scratches are old or new, Sherlock. Those tags are made of an alloy that is not supposed to rust, right, John?'

I have to agree. 'They were designed to identify casualties of war, when their remains were too degraded to be of any use, so yes, they had to be durable.'

Greg looks tense as if he unintentionally has brought up painful memories. I smile to our friend, to ease him.

Sherlock insists: 'The tags are dirty, full of grime. This man was not only vain but also not very hygienic, is that it?'

I close my eyes tiredly, reaching the end of my rope. 'Sherlock, the soldier is dead. Give him a break, will you?'

Sherlock huffs. 'John, your loyalty is becoming, but the man you are defending is not a real soldier. These are not his tags. He took hold of tags that were returned to some soldier's family and he was impersonating that soldier. The body's musculature is inconsistent with a military lifestyle. _Lestrade, you've got no ID._ Luckily, the operation the victim had on his knee was something he couldn't hide. It was done by a good surgeon in some posh clinic where he had all the time and attention that a soldier at war doesn't always get from the start. Maybe you can find records of the operation, it's not older than four or five years. I'm about to post a comparative study on the ageing of scar tissue – _but I'm postponing till after I get to study John's shoulder, it'll have to wait_. In the meantime, Lestrade, there are the tattoos. They are the one thing that ties all the three victims. They all have bright red circles tattooed on their wrists and ankles. While it could be a reference to the Japanese national flag – _reading your mind here, Lestrade_ – the four circles on each individual are more consistent with a ritualistic event. It could be a gang initiation, specific tattoos are common among gang members, but GI Joe here doesn't fit the part; his narcissistic I'll-work-alone tendencies observable in his right hand thumb. It could be artistic, but then why hasn't the tattoo artist come forward as the author yet? That leaves a small, enclosed operation on a secret location, where this man has spent the last months. No one has reported him missing, that implies foul play from the ones sharing this secret location. A secret organisation, a cult perhaps. The secrecy seems to point out at this man being punished with death for breaking their rules.'

Greg scrunches his face as he ponders Sherlock at the end of his deductions monologue, both of them leaning over the covered body that separates them.

'Punished for what?'

Sherlock shrugs. 'Don't know. I'll ask the cult people.'

And with a sharp turn that lacks the impact of his absent long coat, Sherlock walks off. I hurriedly hand back the evidence to Lestrade (I've got my own tags if I ever need any) and follow my mad friend.

'John! ... Make sure you are both careful!' the DI still calls out after us.

_I will_, I promise myself, trailing after the brilliant Sherlock Holmes.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	202. Chapter 202

_A/N: I had a childhood friend who disappeared into a religious cult, so forgive me if I don't give you a true reflection of a religious cult through my eyes. I rather keep this cult (of my creation) more of a futuristic utopia, a closed-off society rooted in some generalist sayings, that sound like happiness-made-easy demagogy, even to the cost of its credibility. Because, anyway, a cult is only that to a spectator, in my experience, and rarely so to an insider._

_Here's the dreaded second chapter, with the plot build-up. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 2 .**_

Sherlock has taken thee wheel of a car. I watch him drive, bemused. Haven't seen this happening since Dartmoor, and I can hardly explain that one-off either.

After all the fast paced deductions at the morgue, Sherlock's been keeping uncharacteristically quiet; almost as if he needs to spare his voice now.

And that, in all fairness, makes this unknown destiny's voyage a kidnap. _Sherlock's kidnapping me into a case._ If I didn't know his methods, I'd convince myself of a kidnap. Instead, I'm fairly convinced he wants to show-off his brilliant deduction of the cult's location, to which I'd make an educated guess he's driving us.

We've been in this car for close to an hour now. It's getting darker outside, as the day turns into night. As we left London we were heading in a fixed direction, but I've hardly been keeping tabs on our location since we left the motorway and entered smaller roads.

'Sherlock?'

The car has choked a sudden protest and dies down on us. Sherlock has no difficulty in manoeuvring our car to the side of the empty road.

'Flat tyre?' I wonder, worriedly.

'Out of petrol', he assures me.

I curse inwardly. My friend has such a great genius mind, but sometimes the practicalities of everyday life are beyond him. _Did he remember to check the fuel level before we took off?_

Looking all around us in the dusky landscapes I struggle to recall: 'When did we last drove past a petrol station?'

'Miles away.'

I sigh and open the car door. Sherlock adds, petulantly: 'Not going anywhere.'

My second sigh resembles a groan, but I offer: 'I'll go. Stay there if you will.' With a small hope I still take out my phone, but there's no network available. 'Sherlock, your phone?'

'Dead too', he answers at once, not even checking.

Right. I look back on the road that stretches behind us. Better get going. It's a long way, with no other cars in sight.

'I'll be back with petrol soon, Sherlock. Take care.'

_'Wait.'_

There's an unexpected softness in my friend's voice as I turn back, to lean on the open car window. I find him smirking, very much like the old Sherlock.

'I did it', he tells me.

I frown, unsure. 'Are you owning up to your lack of common sense or volunteering to go get petrol yourself? Because–'

He cuts me short, harshly. 'I did my calculations right and kept to an average speed to ensure we'd run out around here.'

_My friend has got some explaining to do._

'Why?' is all I actually ask of him.

He takes out his phone and checks it's out of network too. 'We're definitely in the right place, John. This cult is anti-technology. They take the liberty of jamming the phone signals within a three miles radius of their estate.'

I turn my phone off to save battery life.

'So this was planned?' I make sure, pointing at the engine. He nods. 'Alright. So, what do we do now?'

He smirks. 'Good old John Watson', he mutters. Then, more lively, he details: 'We ring the doorbell and ask for help. We ran out of petrol and we can prove it, when they check. And they will check. There's a certain level of paranoia associated with every cult. Hopefully they'll let two stranded, harmless men crash in for the night.'

'Or they'll tell us to use our phones three miles away. Or they'll drive us to a petrol station, I point out logically.

'They certainly would if they knew us. But right now we are potential new members to their group', he says with a daring smile. 'Have you not noticed their numbers are dwindling?'

I shake my head in amusement.

'So, we are fresh meat?' I use an old army expression for the cadettes.

'That too', he agrees, a bit lost on my metaphor.

'You look like the Cheshire cat, Sherlock, you need to tone it down', I advise. He finally gets out of the car.

'Like who's cat?'

'Never mind.'

_**.**_

A young, naïve-looking Sherlock Holmes presses the doorbell of a highly sophisticated steel gate, protecting a reclusive property. I look away from the awkwardly angled camera, recognising that it's tilted to help scan us for concealed weapons. What kind of group is this and why do they fear outsiders so much?

I glance worriedly at Sherlock as the seconds go by without an answer. He gives me a small smile, in keeping with his theatrical role.

_That reminds me: who was I, again?_

Before I can gather my best acting skills at being, well – just plain John Watson, the gate is unlocked and opened from within.

A pale beautiful face of a young woman with her eyebrows slightly creased in confusion comes between the slightly opened gates.

'Good evening', I say to her. I mean, what else can one say? The familiarity of her gestures reminds me that this is her home we are hoping to trespass.

Sherlock glances at me, looks like he's fighting an eye roll with all his might, and takes the lead. 'Our car just broke down. I...' He scratches the back of his head, looking embarrassed. 'I ran out of petrol.'

'Yeah, we're...' I look left and right '...sort of lost here.'

_If Sherlock and I ever had an inkling of a telepathic connection, I can sense is eye roll burning through it._

'Our phones aren't working, can we use yours?'

She bites her lip, sympathetic. 'We don't have phones. The ones in here recognise that phones once made us modern slaves of stress and anxiety. We've given up on most material goods.' The hand that she keeps on the cold steel gate slackens a bit and lets it fall open a bit more, revealing that she is all dressed in white, from head to toes. The only splash of colour is a bright red circle on the inside of her wrist.

'How about petrol?' I intervene. 'You wouldn't happen to have extra petrol? Diesel, I believe.'

She looks amused. 'Not really, no.'

'Worth the try', I murmur, looking down the road we came. _If Sherlock doesn't come up with something clever, it's going to be a long walk back._

She looks from me to Sherlock and opens her face in a beautiful bright smile. 'Don't be upset. It was providence that brought you here tonight. I'm Sunshine', she introduces herself.

'Sherlock', my friend beats me to the introductions, 'and this is John, my friend.'

I take notice of how Sherlock got into this habit of proudly naming me as his friend. It exposes a sweet softness from the ever calculating reasoning man.

'Sherlock and John, you are both welcomed to spend the night. We are a safe refuge here. We left our troubles outside. We wish to keep them out.'

'Our trouble is that we ran out of petrol. Won't we need to explain that to the others?' I point out, logically.

Her smile deepens.

'Not at all. You won't be asked to explain yourselves. Everyone is welcomed here.'

_**.**_

Sherlock and I trail behind the self-assured young lady, as I'm already wondering if it's common practise to be welcomed to the property by the cult's leader. She doesn't come across as the leader, but her natural grace and confidence seems to at least indicate a high position of power.

I glance at Sherlock. His face is unreadable.

Sunshine turns back to us as we reach the house. With a gesture she indicates that we should remove our shoes at the door. We comply. I fight the urge to wiggle my socked toes on the soft, deep carpet.

The house is spacious between white walls, full of sofas and small lounging areas, clearly dedicated to the idlest cult member's desire. It looks like the home of a philosopher, a dreamer and a idealist, more than for the practical daily life.

Sherlock comes closer to a blob-filled large painting hanging from the wall. A red circle, tinged with all sorts of sunset hues, clearly hand painted. Sherlock compliments it with a shy smile. The woman's smile becomes wiser, and more natural.

'We spend our time here studying the natural joys of life, Sherlock. And we value the happiness we find in those pursues.'

'Fascinating', he says absent-minded.

A sturdy young man emerges from a living room, looking suspicious, guarded, not at all like Sunshine has promised us. In fact, she lays a calming hand on his forearm at once.

'Ocean, it's okay. They are friends, here to spend the night.'

He relaxes only minimally and she pretends he's fine with our presence. 'Come this way, Sherlock, John...'

She leads us to a room where about a dozen people dressed in white sit at a long dinning table, sharing a vegan meal. Following her request, we sit as well, to share the meal.

So far the cult doesn't look too bad. A generous meal, a luxurious apartment hidden away from the turmoils of modern life, and kind, young people all around.

As I'm chewing on a piece of tofu, I'm also looking around at the calm faces around us. We all eat quietly, devotedly, as if we were practising some silence vow, up until one of the youngest members, barely an adult, asks us directly: 'Where have you come from?'

He seems to be directing his queries at me, and Sherlock flinches and looks down on his plate, following an inspired actor's move to portray shyness, so it's up to me to explain: 'London.' _Can't tell him why we left, can I?_

'It's complicated', he reads my hesitation.

_When is it not, around Sherlock Holmes?_ I give him a tight smile. The young man continues:

'You two can be together in here, no disguises. We don't judge.'

I blink. _Together? He thinks we're..._

'Thank you', Sherlock's words startle me, as he takes advantage of the misconception at once. I'm about to protest anyway when he kicks me under the table. I don't want to give in, but my sore ankle delays me and by then the young man is introducing himself: 'I'm Sky, by the way.'

'You all have nature related names', Sherlock says. Then adds: 'Not that I'm one to comment unusual names.'

'These are our adopted names, Sherlock. We've found them suitable once we came here', he says on a paused, cultured voice, a bit breathy, that contradicts his young age. I notice all the other guests at the table – ten or twelve of them – seem to quieten at the sound of that pondered voice.

'Interesting', comments Sherlock.

Seeing that the conversation falls into some sort of natural silence, I focus back on my tofu.

After the meal is over Sunshine offers to take us to our room. _We'll be sharing it_, thanks to Sherlock; which in all practicality ensures that we can keep an eye out on each other on enemy ground.

Although, to be fair, this doesn't feel like the enemy ground I came to expect. These people seem happy, content, free-willed. They seem to be here of their own choice. I came to expect a brainwashing cult, a dictatorship with heavy propaganda and people blindingly following orders. Instead I found a community of happy, if slightly dazed, young people running away from adulthood.

_I don't know what to make of it._

We're introduced to a nice spacious room, with one large bed and plenty of furniture. Sunshine leaves us at once.

'It's... hm...' I start, looking around. 'Cosy.'

Sherlock shrugs and rolls his eyes, all of his old self returning in full force. He throws himself on the bed, occupying it fully in his overstretched, gangly-limbed manner, hands together by his chin in his thinking pose.

'Very eloquent, John. Perhaps you have not noticed the window is bolted shut and there are no sharp utensils in the room.' I frown, confused. He particularises: 'No running away and no harming the other guests. So much for your theory of free will in here. Also, our car has been pushed into the property grounds. Of course they checked the petrol level.'

_Couldn't he have just messed with the level indicator? I wonder._

For the first time a shiver runs down my back. _Are we... prisoners already?_

Suddenly a commotion erupts from the corridor, after a deaf thumping sound of a body hitting the deck is audible from out there. Sherlock and I glance at each other and rush out of the bedroom together.

At the end of the long corridor, Sky – the young man that spoke to us at the dinner table – is lying on the floor, haphazardly, his body spasming in clonic seizures, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. I try to rush forward, medical instincts kicking in, when I'm forcibly stopped by a strong hand on my arm, Sherlock's fingertips digging into my skin. _Not yet_, he seems to tell me; his eyes sharp and focused on the victim on the floor.

'I've been expecting this', he murmurs, so that only we can hear it.

Other people, from other rooms, are rushing in. But no one intervenes in any way. In fact, they all circle the fallen man, immobile and forming a human wall, expectantly.

Sherlock reads my silent intentions and grabs me harder.

The man stops shivering and flashes his eyes open, looking glazed still, and hardly taking notice of the small crowd gathering around him he says, in a breathy voice:

'He has come. He will show the way. A fighter in his own right. He will win our battle.'

Finally he snaps his eyes shut, his body still chased by occasional tremors on the floor.

I slip out of Sherlock's grip, push people out of my way and kneel on the floor, catching the young man. Holding his neck steady even as his tremors start to subside, I start assessing him. Pupils dilated, damp forehead, uncoordinated movements. This could be drugs or it could lead to an ugly medical diagnosis. I'm going through the different medical scenarios in the back of my head, when I realise the wall of cult members is still wrapped around us; immobile, protective, reverential.

I glance back at the corridor, hoping to convey to Sherlock a message, only to find him missing. He has gone on an exploring walk of his own, taking advantage of this moment of distraction. In order to keep the attention of the cult focused on me, I start giving out orders.

'I'm a doctor, I want to keep an eye on Sky for the next few hours, to see if he goes through a normal recovery. Where is his room? I will need help carrying him there. I will also need to have a word with who's in charge here...' I get no answer. I raise my voice: '_Who_ is in charge here?'

Finally someone stirs. It's a blond woman who points at Sky.

'He is', she says. 'He is our leader. We believe in him. His visions tell us what to do.'

'He is sick', I refuse that idea at once. She doesn't get angry. She smiles down on me and happily tells me: 'Sky is brilliant, a prophet. And you are to be his healer. He saw your arrival two days ago.' Then she adds with a sweet smile: 'It was meant to be.'

Irritated and frustrated, I take a deep breath. _This is definitely a weird case._

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


	203. Chapter 203

_A/N: I was planning on writing an "episode" for this plot. It's tuning out more like a "two-parts episode". Can't make it shorter, sorry. It gets livelier after this one. -csf_

* * *

_**.**__** 3 .**_

Spent the night at the young cult leader's bedside, monitoring his condition. Where I suspect a serious neurological condition, none of his so-called followers seems too troubled by the resulting syncope. I wouldn't have thought possible that in today's society educated, clever people could still be so keen to dismiss all scientific explanations and conjure up a story including the transcendent to give meaning to their lives. It's not their "visions", their toll on the health, but they eagerly soak in the supposed life lessons of a delirious man. Trying to convince them otherwise might be next to impossible. These cult members gave everything they owned to join the cause. All earthly riches, all connection to family and friends, they are in too deep to listen to unsupported reason now. It's a small, collective madness, that feeds off itself, and that may just put a heavy burden on the centrepiece of the organisation, the young man named Sky.

But is this cult a maleficent organisation in some way? Are the members who put a strain in Sky's health, by not urging him to seek medical help, actually intending to harm him? At first glance I would say No. What would become of their group without their leader, right?

As I stayed in for the night I expected to witness sympathy, worry, genuine concern about Sky's recovery after his "vision". I expected to be a witness to the interactions that proved to me that this young man is cherished. _Nothing came. _All the time he was fallen on the floor, the cult members seemed engaged, strained, tense. I see now they were just anxious for the "vision" to be reported.

_Sky was the vessel for the message._

With a strange apathy and disconnect, the group members haven't shown the support and basic care I expected of them.

_That gives me the creeps._

These people who pray the natural wonders of life seem apathetic and numbed when it comes to complex emotions. They appear more isolated now than they must have felt in the general society they escaped from.

I decided that if Sky has another syncope I'm leaving, I'm walking three miles and calling an ambulance. It's my non-medical opinion that Sky is being used by society outcasts that have lost their true empathy. Someone needs to watch out for him, and it'll be me, if his dozen or so followers don't.

The cult members hummed for hours in whispered conversations along the corridors. Their reaction to this illness episode so outlandish for a doctor like me that it makes me wonder if they have lost all sense of decency. There's a young man's life at stake and they persist on dealing with the "vision" as if they were gossiping about their favourite television show plot twists.

As appalled as I am for the lack of empathy, I brush it off to the back of my mind as I do the last round of checking on my patient. He's sleeping peacefully, deeply, and I'm confident there'll be no complications. I neatly put away the meagre supply of medical equipment and the first aid kit I rounded up from the house, then I quietly exit the room.

'John?'

A soft, pondered female voice calls my name as soon as I come on to the corridor. I look up and find the blond I have spoken to a whole night's vigil before.

'Can I help you?' I ask as I wonder if it's safe to leave my patient alone in this vulnerable state.

'How...' She bites her lip, gathering conviction to ask: 'How is he?'

'Resting, miss...?' I ask her nature inspired codename.

She bites her lip again and shares, a bit awkwardly: 'They call me Rain.' Then she adds a clever wink. 'I believe all the good names had already been taken.'

'How did they come up with these names?' I vent, with a bit too much honesty, after a sleepless night.

Rain smirks dangerously. 'I was going for Fire, but it had already been taken.' With a wink, she runs her fingers through her wavy hair. 'I would love to choose your new name, John. Something strong and in control...'

I feel uncomfortable. She's all of a sudden flirting with me.

'Yeah, Sherlock must be wondering where I am by now...' I try to change the course of the conversation. Her smile breaks as fast as I mention Sherlock. Then remembering last night's dinner table assumption that Sherlock and I were a couple I see how this came off. 'Actually, were not–'

She interrupts me: 'Right, well, if you need anything...'

I assure her I'm fine for the time being as she's already moving to allow me to pass by her on the corridor. I take my leave at once. I can still feel a distinct brush of fingertips over the top back of my jeans as I go past her. I turn around and face her in shock; she just smiles, fiery, moving away on the opposite direction.

Not just an impression, then.

_Since when have I become a pawn in this elaborate chess game for power?_

Hurrying back to our assigned room – _lest I get chased by more nature nymphs I'm too old for –_ I slip in with a sigh of relief.

I have no trouble finding Sherlock. He's sat at the table, by the window, checking out mysterious samples in acrylic slides with his pocket lenses.

I close the door tiredly and walk over to the only bed in the room. There's little creasing on the quilt fabric, from earlier, letting me know I wasn't the only one awake all night. While I was on call as a doctor, Sherlock has been making do as an investigator.

Shrugging off my jumper, I start tiredly: 'Working hard, Sherlock?'

'I've been analysing the food from our victim's meal for any substance that could have sparked the seizure.'

_Oh, that's clever_, I think, foggily, scrubbing my eyelids with my knuckles.

'I've been doctoring Sky, making sure he rested and all that...' I murmur, halfway through a yawn. Then I produce a small pills jar from my pocket and offer it. 'I've replaced the pills in that with a blood sample for you, Sherlock. Do all the testing you can improvise on it, but once that's done it's done. That's all you'll get. I'm not extracting more blood. It's too tricky without the proper sized hypodermic needle and I've left a small bruise in the crook of his arm. I think he'd notice if he started having more bruises. I'm not doing it again.'

'I didn't asked you to, John', he points out, feverishly bright eyes stuck on mine and his hand possessively around my gift.

'Yeah, but don't I know you so well', I reply, pointedly. He just smirks.

'I'd assume you'd refuse, John, yet you've taken initiative. There is hope for you yet!'

_God help me..._ I shake my head tiredly.

'He's not much more than a kid, Sherlock. _A kid._ He can have a brain tumor, or undiagnosed epilepsy, I don't know!' I realise I'm raising my voice now. But I don't really care. 'He deserves the chance of some good medical care and he's not getting it stuck in here, from where he can't leave, Sherlock!'

'He doesn't wish to leave', Sherlock states logically, nonetheless.

'He wouldn't be able to. And look at the cult members that ended up in the morgue, they probably wanted out and got permanently silenced. It's...' I'm walking around aimlessly, I take notice, and force myself to a halt. 'It's not right, Sherlock.'

My friend gets up and faces me, sternly. Taller than me, he stares down with depth and haggard worry.

'You did all you could, John. You need to rest now. Your patient–'

'Sky', I correct him.

'Your patient', he insists, 'is stable and resting. I suggest you do the same before you lose your strengths, John. There's a new day starting and I might need your help before the day is done.'

He's right, I realise. As often, Sherlock can stop the whirlwind in my exhausted mind with just a few words and that deep, soul-sharing gaze in his eyes. I sigh, letting go of the last remnants of fight in me.

'Can I take the bed?'

'Be my guest. I've got more work to do.'

'You also need to rest, Sherlock.'

He shrugs, inconsequentially. 'I'm good for another 48 hours, John.'

_**.**_

By the end of the morning, as the sun is shining bright and unchallenged in the sky, the cult members start coming together of their own accord.

I've just been woken up by Sherlock, and I stare groggily at my friend as he silently resumes his place by the bedroom window. He's gently pulling back the curtain with one outstretched finger and peering out. Beyond the silhouette of my immobile friend I can see the movement of several group members, passing by our window, all heading towards the back gardens.

'Sherlock, what is it?' I whisper, roughly, my voice hoarse from being yanked out of sleep.

'Judging by the level of calmness and organisation, some sort of ritual is about to take place.'

'And they didn't ask us to join', I mutter.

'Not this time, they won't', Sherlock answers mysteriously.

I frown. So, do you know what this is about?

He nods, but answers more reservedly: 'I can guess... And we are not meant to be included, not yet.' He then looks at me, evaluating me. 'Ready to go get the petrol for the car, John?'

Looking all surprised at my friend as I remember what got us in here, I have to slowly shake my head. 'We need to stay longer, Sherlock.'

He smiles confidently. 'Thought you'd say that.' And he throws something my way, that I catch out of instinct. Looking down on my hands I recognise a small, dark, greasy car valve from the engine.

'Sherlock, this is crazy! Did you take this out of our car? What if someone saw you?' Anyway, the car _is _stalled.

He looks out of the window, to where no one can be seen walking anymore. 'I haven't touched the car. Someone else did that for us. Found it on the grounds outside... John, someone wants us to stay, and I assume it's only polite to indulge our hosts' wishes.'

I nod, shortly. Sabotage or not, it serves us well. We've got a serial murder to solve. Sherlock's favourite murders.

_**.**_

We approach the ceremony out on the back after it has started. Exhibiting our most convincing "curiously innocent" looks, we come to stand a bit further out from the edge of the circle of people sitting on the ground, legs crossed, hands held out in a human chain. In the middle of the circle there is a space reserved for an incoming, very pale, still weak Sky, so he can lead the ceremony.

I find myself upset that he'd be coerced into coming out and performing his duties instead of resting. But not even I can deny the peaceful, satiated expressions in the cult members as he shows up. There is joy and glee as they see him take his usual spot in the middle.

"Today we will shine"; the group says in unison.

Sky nods with the appropriate reverence for the one presiding the ceremony. He looks much older and more composed as he starts listing chores for each member, from cooking to cleaning, and studying the works produced by other members. No protest erupts from the entranced audience. I glance at Sherlock, by my side. He looks favourably surprised, positively admiring the structure of such a small sample of society. It provokes a shiver down my back, as I doubt whether it's still a front for a good actor or if something has struck a chord in him, making him a believer. There's something in the willingness with which each member receives their tasks that really doesn't fit in with my idea of a cult. These people are not being directly manipulated into making the choices that are better for the cult at their personal expenses. They are eager to contribute. They aren't being contained by a cult, _they are the cult._

In this fervour, one of them could be handed a killing assignment. They wouldn't hesitate.

Or could the murders have been the solitary decision of just one individual, urging to defend their lives of a perceived threat? And why?

We're in the cult, but we're no closer to finding out our killer yet.

By my side, Sherlock briskly turns around and starts walking away. I follow him at once, by instinct. He slows his steps so I can walk by his side, but we keep ominously silent for a while longer.

_**.**_

With our small stroll around the gardens I feel that oppression I felt under inside the house lift off me. A bit like when you are inside a cold damp stone building for too long and you come out only to get baffled by the warm sunshine of a spring day. It's always been there, but you couldn't feel it, and you should be forgiven for thinking it was always a rainy day.

I sigh. Maybe the silly happiness mantras the cult produces every now and then are getting to me. Their house is comfortable, the members are polite. If I'm wound up it must surely be because of the lack of sleep.

Biting the inside of my cheek and glancing quickly over my shoulder at the house, I unite my hands behind my back and match my pace with Sherlock's.

'You okay, John?' Sherlock starts. I nod sharply. He wanders his gaze around the well looked after gardens. 'There are no microphones in the birds and the bees, John. We are safe to communicate in here.'

I nod, curtly – _good to know_ – and let my shoulders relax. Fractionally. After all, this I still the home of a murder infused secret cult.

Sherlock admits calmingly: 'Everything is organised and structured in here. A clear leader, the helpers, the protectors, the enablers and the best support. Lovely secluded location as well. Clear messages of promise and hope, examples of healing and belief leading the newbies... I can see why this place is successful.'

'Sherlock, are you starting to buy into this crap?' I confront my friend, point-blank.

He only makes a noncommittal noise in way of an answer. His attention seems to have drifted off to a nearby round, enshrouded by perennial shrubs, garden. Again, the cult's obsession with circular shapes making itself clear. In this particular case, the pinwheel design of the plantation area allows for the housing of different herbs. I'm assuming this is another step in their self-sufficiency quest, bringing in more flavours to the kitchen. Some oregano, basil and thyme in there, but also some camomile and lemongrass that can be infused in teas. And those are only the easier ones to recognise.

As I notice all the attention Sherlock is putting on the small garden I need to smile.

'Bees?' I bring up my friend's inexplicable interest. He takes bees quite seriously. The variety in the subspecies, the way they build their colonies, the diminishing numbers of late; his case file on bees in only rivalled by his studies in forensics., I believe.

I chuckle unexpectedly. _221Bee, Baker Street._

My abnormal reaction jolts Sherlock out of his daydream. He focus back on me with a curious expression, soft and tranquil. I can feel myself blush to the thought of having to explain myself. He spares me the humiliation by resuming our walk through the grounds.

'I don't think I quite fit the part here, Sherlock', I confess to my enthusiastic friend. And Sherlock is taking the cult's message of harmony and living in communion with nature a bit too seriously, sometimes.

Sherlock waves a hand freely, dismissively. 'It's the old good cop, bad cop routine, John! You are so obviously a nonbeliever, it's engrained in your body language, so I'll be the compliant one for the both of us.'

I cringe. _Is it that obvious that I distrust all of this?_

There's a lonely part of me that wished feverously that I could believe their promised lies and hand over all control to this group. _Let go of your arms; stand down, soldier._ Life would be so much easier if I did just that.

It comes as a surprise to find that Sherlock has immobilised himself, looking sideways at me, studying me openly. His face is unreadable, but I get this familiar feeling that he was listening in on my thoughts, making sure I don't fall into this honeysweet trap.

It's only now that I realise I'm the perfect example, practically textbook, of someone who could fall for this life. Former military, used to following orders blindingly in the army's hierarchy, who lost his function, the one that gave order, structure, _meaning_ to his life due to a sudden injury. Left reeling after the life change, looking for a new belonging, a sense of mission, camaraderie and a higher purpose. Single-minded fighter, ready to pledge allegiance to a cause that _needs_ him. This is why they are so interested in me. This is why Sherlock dares to be fulltime monitoring me. I came across as a perfect target – or I'd have been, before meeting Sherlock – and the detective genius is not oblivious to this.

Forget the artistic, misunderstood free soul Sherlock is playing at. It was a good effort, but his fake persona wants it too much, wants it like a luxury, a pastime.

A former wartime hero that has trouble fitting in the world makes the perfect target instead.

I can be the muscles to an organisation like this. All I require is a sense of belonging and a cause.

But no. Blooming hell, I'm an army doctor. I take pride in using my brain. I may not be a genius, but I can sense, from the evidences available and the instinct I perfected at war, that this place isn't _home._

_Maybe because I've already found my home at Baker Street._

Even today, there is something undeniably appealing in this organised cult.

If I was a touch more _lost_ I could have been taken in. If I hadn't met Sherlock Holmes...

_Blooming hell._

With a sigh I take a seat in a nearby garden bench, and Sherlock immediately takes my side.

Rough voice coming across in little more than a whisper, I ask him: 'I'm the target they have in mind, aren't I? I'm the textbook believer, how come I couldn't see it before?' I let my shoulders sag and question: 'Is this why you insisted I come along, Sherlock? Am I the bait?'

Sherlock shakes his head, calmly. Almost amused.

'John', he calls for my attention softly. 'Former addict here, obsessive and indulgent. You know how I am for a case', he particularises as his voice trembles with emotion. '_I'm_ the perfect target. I asked you to come to be my lifeline, so I could be sure not to fall.' Seeing all my attention on him with his green-grey eyes going back and forth on mine, he takes a deeper breath and continues: 'Only in my disguise, these traits have become more muted, thus allowing yours to shine by comparison. It was a miscalculation', he admits painfully. 'I overlooked your loyalty and resourcefulness, and how they would appeal to the cult, John... It's a dangerous game we're playing here, John. Should you want to leave, we'll be sure to do so immediately. I'll find us a way.'

I take a second to think it through, owing this much to Sherlock.

'No. Someone in here is a murderer. We need to stay and catch them.'

He nods. 'Agreed.'

'Stay close', I ask him, for his safety.

'You too', he responds very seriously.

_**.**_

_**TBC**_


End file.
